Civil Affairs
by WetRats
Summary: When Jonas Coolwater emerges from Vault 111, searching for his son is very low on his list of priorities. The story was inspired by many, many hours of play and encouraged by the Sim Settlements community. The story itself ends with the epilogue. Subsequent chapters are just odds and ends of world-building that insisted I write them.
1. Chapter 1: Cold Case

**Chapter One: Cold Case**

Do you really want to know my story Miss Wright?

It ain't pretty.

I hope you've got a lot of paper.

And a lot of booze.

* * *

I suppose I should start with a proper introduction.

Major Jonas H. Coolwater, US Army, Civil Affairs Division, Retired

Civil Affairs.

There didn't turn out to be much civility in Alaska, did there?

Not that the Canadian Pacification Program was particularly civil, either, but at least I got to do the job I was trained for.

Alaska went tits-up fast.

I was there when the ye-... when the Chinese invaded. R&R at a little hunting camp/brothel about 100 miles inland from Anchorage.

80-odd officers from 40-odd units, none of us below Major, and 100 or so support staff and another 100 or so ... hostesses.

General Fontaine was convinced that after 33 years riding a succession of ever-larger desks his moment had finally come and he did his best to organize us into a behind-the-lines resistance and sabotage cell.

His best wasn't very good.

There were only twenty-seven of us left by the time we hooked up with the survivors of the commando team.

Their mission was spectacularly FUBARed, and they were every bit as cut off from support as we were, but Genius Jonas here decided that we could salvage their mission.

And we did.

In a fashion.

Because by then I had discovered I had a gift for violence.

And ruthlessness.

I could make sacrifices and still face myself in the mirror when I shaved.

So I made some sacrifices.

The goo- the Chinese lost their supply dump, and I slunk back to the camp with three remaining commandos and two Trixies.

The High Brass were really pleased with me at first.

There were medals, press conferences, even a photo with the President.

Then someone dug up Col. Tillerman's journals, and they learned what happened to Fontaine.

Having made me a hero, they could hardly turn around and prosecute me, so they had me diagnosed with severe battle fatigue and sent me to Parsons for "treatment."

Parsons was not fun. I'll just leave it at that.

But Alaska didn't break me, so neither did that place.

I'm not sure how she found out about me, but some hotshot young lawyer took up my case and got me released with a clean record.

Then I found out what her fee was.

Turned out she was knocked up and needed to get married in a hurry if her hopes for a political career were gonna survive.

My being a war hero and a local boy made me the ideal instant husband.

So we settled down in Sanctuary Hills, and pretended to be a happy little family.

I was almost able to fool myself that I actually _was_ happy.

Sometimes for weeks at a time.

Then the anger would build up to the point I needed to hurt someone.

I didn't love Nora, but I was grateful to her, so I kept things away from the neighborhood, despite how much I would have loved to kick the crap out of that kid across the street.

I'd usually go somewhere in Southie to cut loose. Play drunk at some dive, wait 'til somebody tried to roll me, then take them out.

I'm not sure how long I'd have gotten away with it, but somebody pushed the big red button and I became the coldest cold case ever.

* * *

The noise from that damn vault being dug had robbed me of months of sleep.

Well Vault-Tec paid back that debt, anyway.

With interest.

Aside from one ugly little interruption, I slept for more than 200 years.

And I guess I should be grateful that I didn't dream.

I'm not a big fan of dreams.

I got thawed out just to watch some bald bastard execute my wife and carry off her baby, then went right back to chillsville.

Oh right. _My_ son. Call him that, it'll make me more sympathetic to your readers.

I'm not sure if Mister Personality and his pals sabotaged the other pods, or if it was shoddy workmanship, but when I was dumped out of mine, all the other - what did you call us? Vault Dwellers? - all the other Vault Dwellers were dead, so I got to find my way out of that roach-infested hellhole by myself.

Only to discover the whole goddamned world was a hellhole now.

OK. I'll admit it. My world was a hellhole, too.

But it was clean, and the plumbing worked.

Guess I should have paid extra for the home maintenance upgrade for Codsworth, because Nora's ridiculous status symbol was still puttering uselessly around the ruins of our old house. And you know what the first thing it says to me was? "As I live and breathe."

As. I. Live. And. Breathe.

It's a fucking robot, it doesn't do either. General Atomics engineers may have been brilliant, but their programmers were apparently a bunch of dipshits.

Shame that demented robots wasn't the worst of it.

Or the weirdest.

Because as soon as I head across the bridge toward Concord, I meet a dog.

A purebred German Shepherd. Looked like he'd just come from the Westminster Dog Show.

There's a story for you, lady, who the hell, in this godforsaken, post-apocalyptic mess… seriously who the hell is breeding German Shepherds? Is there some robotic puppy mill out there somewhere?

I'm not sure if the dog stirred them up, or I did, but it turns out there was a nest of some sort of ugly-ass giant rodents under the filling station.

Tunneling ugly-ass giant rodents.

Good thing I found a lot of ammo in the vault.

And then I stumbled into a firefight between a gang of some sort and a lunatic Revolutionary War reenactor.

I would have liked to take a minute to size up the situation, but Rex the Wonder Dog went right for the throat of the nearest one, and then I've got a whole flock of shitbirds coming after me.

I gotta admit, after the last few hours, I was ready to kill somebody who could appreciate the fact that they were getting killed. Giant mutant vermin are just annoying pests, doing their giant mutant vermin thing, but a proper enemy is a lot more satisfying target.

Of course, there wasn't much proper about this enemy. They were just a mob of untrained, ill-equipped idiots, and after my time in Alaska, they really weren't much of a challenge. Shootouts in the street aren't my preference when it comes to a fight, but I knew the neighborhood, and it was pretty easy to straggle them out and pick them off. Especially with Rin Tin Tin keeping them distracted.

Inside the old museum was much more to my liking. Poor lighting conditions. Distracting noises. Plenty of cover. Perfect place for knife work.

It turned out that Johnny Tremaine had himself a few civilians he was trying to protect, and my blood was up, so before long I was on the roof, looking at a rusted old T-45.

I really don't like power armor. See this burn? That's what happens when the optics system shorts out. And I got lucky, most folks lost an eye or two when that happened. But that T-45 would give me the strength to handle the Rockwell minigun that was also up there, and might even protect me if the damn thing misfired. And the odds of a misfire in a 200-year old, mass-produced weapon throwing a truly stupid amount of lead were really high, but like I said, my blood was up. Hell. Just a few hours before, I watched some asshole blow half my wife's face off, and here was a fresh new batch of assholes just begging to be ripped apart five millimeters at a time.

Saying that now, I'm realizing that I'm probably exactly the right kind of crazy for this fucked-up world of yours.

Anyway, stupid as I was for even thinking of pulling the trigger on that thing, the clowns in the street were even stupider, because they didn't run away when I started spraying away at them with God's own gardenhose.

The thing you've gotta understand, Miss Wright, is that I'm not a berserker.

Berserkers don't last long. They can be really useful as a distraction, and sometimes they can do some good damage before they get themselves killed, but ultimately they're doomed idiots.

I have always fought smart. That's why I came home with all my important bits intact, and a relatively small collection of scars.

But not that day.

No. That day I went berserk.

I jumped right off the roof. Three fucking stories.

I knew a T-45 was built for that, but it was two hundred years old and completely unmaintained.

I didn't give a shit.

I jumped off and charged headlong at the nearest asshole.

And they still didn't run.

And they didn't even run when God-freaking-zilla burst out of the ground and started killing them too.

Liberty Bill must have had quite a show from the balcony as Larry the Lizard and the Tin Woodsman merrily ripped through the pack of poor bastards from opposite ends of the street.

I'm not sure what I expected when the two of us met in the middle, bits and pieces of dead dumbfucks scattered all around - a handshake and a couple cigars? Who frikking knows? But what I got was my ass knocked clear back to the steps of the museum.

It had to have been sheer luck that I landed where I did, because there's no way there are any angels looking out for me, but there was the Rockwell, right where I'd dropped it when I Geronimoed.

The last fifty or so rounds in the magazine blew out the back of T-Rex's skull as it came to finish me off.

I lay there for a good twenty minutes, half buried under a thousand pounds of dead lizard.

You'd think Yankee Doodle and his pals would have come and dug me out, but no. They stayed in the museum until I used the last juice from the fusion cell to heave that carcass off of what was left of my own carcass.

So I staggered inside, and they're sitting around the lobby, arguing about some nonsense or another. Sergeant Preston of the Commonwealth Mounties thanks me and hands me a pouch full of bottlecaps - Bottlecaps? What the fuck is wrong with you people? - hands me this shit and asks me for more help.

Seems that they're heading to my old neighborhood to make a new start. Based on a vision of some sort from this old hippie lady.

What the hell.

Sure.

At that point I was ready to get back in my pod and let the Elvis impersonator try to re-freeze me.

* * *

I ended up spending a few weeks helping them set up a rough camp at what's left of Sanctuary Hills.I had a lot to learn about this brave new world I'd found myself in, and the more I could find out before I ventured much farther, the fewer ugly surprises I should encounter.

I explored the vicinity, usually with the dog. Met a few nice neighbors, and far too many nasty ones. Including some ghouls. Feral ghouls, Garvey called 'em. Said there are a fair number of poor irradiated bastards who somehow manage to keep alive and relatively sane, but the ones I came across at the Flynn brothers' truckyard just wanted to eat my face. I'm pretty sure a couple of them _were_ the Flynn brothers. I got well and truly drunk for the first time since I woke up from the big sleep after that encounter. Predatory animals I understood. Predatory humans I understood even better. But mindless husks of human beings, walking around for centuries until somebody finally kills them? That is a whole extra level of fucked up.

After that, my interest in exploring cooled. Maybe I should just fix up the house, get the farmer's daughter to teach me how to grow melons, and see if I could convince her to let me teach her a few things in return.

Then Carla showed up.

I don't know if you've ever met her, but that is one seriously tough lady. First person I met since the bombs dropped that I could truly respect.

I liked the Abernathys. I liked Sturges. Hell, the rest of Garvey's crew weren't that bad, even the crazy old junkie. But Carla was competent.

Staggeringly competent.

She'd seen pretty much everything this wonderful world of yours had to offer, and she just pushed her way through the muck and worked.

Until I met Carla, I figured there was nothing left in this world but chaos, hunger, fear, and death. But she taught me that, strange as it might be, there is a core of civilization left, and even an economy.

Where there's an economy, there's opportunity.

Not just the smash and grab opportunity the parasitical raiders see.

Not just the meager survival opportunity the hardscrabble farmers see.

Not just the dumpster-diving opportunity the scavengers and traders see.

But an opportunity to start building, instead of just picking the last few scraps of of a dead world.

All it needed was someone with the right knowledge.

Someone trained to build networks of formal and informal leaders to accomplish important missions in diplomatically or politically sensitive areas.

Someone trained to apply knowledge of governance, economics, and politics to affect human behavior in the context of military operations or in support of strategic objectives.

Someone trained to interpret U.S. and foreign maps; conduct civil, governmental, humanitarian, and defense assistance; apply organizational and leadership skills required in field operations; and conduct research on documents and other aspects of urban and regional studies.

Someone like Major Jonas H. Coolwater, US Army, Retired. Civil Affairs Division.

And someone with the ability to be ruthless when necessary.


	2. Chapter 2: The Triangle of Death

**Chapter Two: The Triangle of Death**

The Abernathys were gonna be crucial to my plan.

Blake had generations of hard-won knowledge of how to get crops to thrive in this climate.

And he was working with some pretty crappy soil.

I understood why his family had made their stake there. Visibility was excellent. From the tower, you could see trouble coming from a long way off. As long as you had somebody available to watch.

But what could he do with good bottomland, proper irrigation, and plenty of labor?

And Connie was sharp.

She knew how to make the best use of any resource she got her hands on, and just how much the things she didn't need would be worth to somebody else.

And she knew how to hate.

Losing their daughter was just one more confirmation of her husband's fatalistic worldview, but Connie wanted revenge.

She was overjoyed to get Mary's locket back, but you should have seen the look on her face when I started pulling heads out of a bag.

Lucy got sick, and wouldn't look me in the eye for weeks. Blake just walked down the hill and sat at the grave for a few hours. But Connie smiled, kissed me full on the mouth, and went inside and started cooking. Let me tell you, that woman can bake.

Blake didn't want the heads displayed like I suggested, but Connie knew what to do with them. If you make it out to Abernathy Farm, and smell a little something extra when you use the new latrine, that's Ack-Ack and her boys.

I figured poor Marcy would pitch a fit when I insisted on relocating everybody to the Abernathy's place for a while, but it was Garvey who wouldn't shut up.

He was adamant that I rescue another homestead up to the northeast.

I explained that I had talked to them after clearing out the listening station and tried to talk them into joining us, but they were insistent on holding on to their own pitiful stake, despite their problems.

When I suggested he go tackle the Corvega Plant by himself, he shut up pretty quickly.

So I put them at Blake's disposal after going over my plans for establishing some proper defenses.

Besides cementing the Abernathy's loyalty, my trip north had provided another Rockwell and a crapload of 5mm ammo. First thing I set Sturges to, once he had thoroughly cleaned and serviced both guns, and carefully inspected the ammo, was to mount them nice and high on opposite corners of the tower. The next batch of lowlifes that tried to bully Ma & Pa Kettle out of their melons was gonna get a really nasty surprise.

Next thing was to deal with the Flynn's warehouse. I wanted the smaller building torn down, and the materials used to make a weatherproof shelter closer to the tower. After that, the contents of the warehouse could be hauled up and sorted, and then the larger structure could be dismantled and used to construct a palisade around the house, the fields, and the new building.

That should keep them busy for a while. If they got all that done before I got back, I challenged them to get the trailers up the hill.

Meanwhile, I took the Mr. Handy down into Vault 111 and instructed it to take a thorough inventory. I suspected some of the contents could more than make up for the loss of revenue from the Abernathy's crops.

Carla's expression when I mentioned having access to a nearly unspoiled vault had given away more than she intended.

I wasn't ready to start doling out those goods yet, but she was more than willing to take the salvaged Protectron from Wicked Shipping in trade for what Connie had requested, as well as a couple items I'd asked her to scare up.

She brought me the better part of two gallons of gun oil, and three dozen pullets. Lucy still wasn't meeting my gaze when I explained the concept of a chicken tractor, but I could tell she was charmed by the little yellow peeps, and very pleased when I stressed that neither they nor their eventual eggs were for eating. A reliable source of guano was going to be critical in the days ahead.

When Carla headed back out, I went with her. I had to tie the damn dog up to keep him from following, but from what I'd heard of the state of Boston, I figured he'd be more likely to get me into trouble than out of it. Carla had told me there was a man in someplace called Goodneighbor who might have the skills I needed, and she could see me as far as Bunker Hill.

A couple days out, we hit a place called Covenant. Impressive little settlement. First decently-fortified place I'd seen. Nice concrete walls, stout gate, machine gun turrets. Dandy. Folks there were certainly friendly, although their entrance examination was very strange.

But they had good supplies, for what Carla told me was the best prices in the area. I left much happier with my firepower, and better fed than I had been since I brought Connie her presents.

If I hadn't been traveling with Carla, all my big ideas would have probably ended on Tucker Memorial Bridge, but she noticed that some of the wreckage had been moved, and I was able to find the booby traps. Somebody really wanted to blow somebody else the hell up, but there was no follow-up ambush party in place, so I'm not sure what the story was behind that.

Not long after, I got my first look at a super mutant. Three of them in fact. Jesus they're big. And loud. They looked strong, too. Not super-bright mutants, fortunately, though. I made a lot of noise while Carla hid, and I got them to chase me back across the bridge. One of their big feet caught a tripwire, and boom.

Boom.

Boom.

If I ever meet the person who mined that bridge, I'll kiss THEM full on the mouth.

* * *

Bunker Hill was interesting.

Fortifications were impressive at first glance, but there's no depth to them - no watchtowers other than the monument itself, no provision for enfilading fire, no concealed firing positions, no loopholes in the walls, no overhead protection, far too much reliance on wood. The place is more of a deathtrap than a fortress. I guess that's why they pay every scumbag in the area to leave them unmolested. Sounds like the Boston parasites might be a little smarter than the ones out in the burbs. Protection rackets are sustainable. Raiding, not so much.

I'm sure glad I had been told about … what do you call ghouls that aren't feral? … Just ghouls? OK. I'm sure glad I had been told about ghouls, because one came up to me and offered me a job.

Something about his accent seemed familiar. Then he introduced himself as Edward Deegan. Christ. Eddie Deegan. His little brother Frank beat me in the 100-yard dash at city finals my senior year of high school, and Eddie had been even better, won the state hurdles title three years running. Heh. Running. Crazylegs Eddie Deegan, all grown up and gross-looking, but holy crap. Small town, Boston, always was. He was even more surprised to see me, especially considering I still had skin on my face.

Eddie remembered reading about my time in Alaska - the sanitized version, anyway - and really started to try to sell me on working for him. When he saw the look on my face when he mentioned Cabot House, I guess he remembered that I got sent to Parsons, and changed the subject real quick. But we drank a whole bunch of nasty ancient Gwinnett Ale, and talked for hours about long dead mutual acquaintances. When I said I was trying to get to Goodneighbor, he told me it was Scollay Square, and offered to show me the safest way there.

* * *

Once again, I was sure glad to have a guide.

We dodged some more Super Mutants, wild dogs, a freaking _bear_, and any number of murderous assholes. We had to kill half-a dozen ferals, and I was interested to see that they seemed to disturb Eddie even more than they disturb me. Do good ghouls go rotten? I didn't want to ask him.

Anyway, we managed to avoid a lot of trouble, and got to Goodneighbor by late afternoon. Helluva town. Reminds me of some of the neighborhoods outside army bases: every vice you can imagine, just waiting to be indulged.

Of course, some idiot tried to shake me down as soon as I walked through the gates. I stared him down, and he backed away stammering, only to end up facing the most eccentric individual I've ever seen, pre- or postwar. Tricorn hat, cutaway red coat with at least seventy buttons, pirate boots, and an American flag wrapped around his waist. Oh, and he's a ghoul. I can't believe how quickly I'm getting used to ghouls. So he talks to Mister Insurance for a minute and then knifes him. The messy way. Introduces himself as - get this - John Hancock, and says he's the mayor. Standing there all smiles with the late idiot's blood and bowels all over his fancy boots. Got my attention, that's for sure.

After that, Eddie took me to some shops run by another pre-war ghoul and one seriously creepy robot. Programmers! Weird-ass programmers. And I could see that I'd want to do business with both of them, once I had the cash - sorry - caps.

Then we go down into the subway station, past a ghoul in a tuxedo, and into an honest-to-god bar. Carla was right - civilization persists.

The guy I was looking for was there, a cocky kid named MacCready. I liked him well enough, and I really liked the look of his sniper rifle, so we made a deal and agreed to head out the next day.

The supply of caps I'd liberated from Ack-Ack and her pals was just about gone by this point, but Eddie said he'd share a room with me at the Hotel Rexford. And that's where the world got even smaller, because there was another pre-war ghoul there who knew me. He sold me my spot in the goddamned vault. I wasn't sure if I should thank him, or kill him, but as he kept talking, I realized he would have knowledge that I could really take advantage of, so I ended up talking him into heading back to Sanctuary with me.

Look, Miss Wright, I hope you'll work with me in the way you present this in your story, but I want pre-war ghouls to come work for me. As many as we can find. Your mayor is a special kind of idiot to have run them out of town. Pre-war ghouls are the most valuable resource in the Commonwealth. They know how things worked. Christ, I bet they're the only reason the lights are still on in this place. Electricians, mechanics, carpenters, masons… hell I don't care if they worked at Slocum Joe's or Joe Spuckies … I want them and their knowledge, and I for goddamned sure will treat them with the respect they deserve. So what if they're ugly and smell bad… who the hell doesn't in this place? Exceptin' yourself, of course, ma'am, you smell very nice indeed and you are definitely not ugly.

So where was I? Right. The three of us made it back to Bunker Hill the next day, and I arranged to travel with some quack of a "doctor" and his bodyguards, and we made it back to the Abernathy's farm without any incidents worth boring you with.

* * *

My people had done pretty well while I was gone. The shed was built, the warehouse emptied, and the new fence was well underway. And lo and behold, who else was there, but the folks from Tenpines. The ones Garvey wanted me to help. Seems the Corvega crew came back and took everything they had left. I'm glad they made it. They aren't the brightest, but right now what I need is hands and backs more than I need heads.

Doc Weathers said there were a few other people on his route that might be interested in joining up, and I told him to send them our way, but not to make any promises in my name. That shady bastard will probably charge them for the information, but again, at this point I can only be so selective.

I took Rick, the Vault-Tec rep, down to help the robot with the inventory, and then I spent a couple days looking over the work my people had done, making suggestions and listening to their ideas on how to proceed. Turns out the Flynn boys were into some bad business, because there was some very interesting stuff buried in their warehouse. I'd need a little time to think about how best to use it.

Lucy seemed to have gotten over her fear of me, but from the way she was looking at Sturges, I was pretty sure I wouldn't be picking melons with her after all. Blake and Connie seemed to approve, but I'm not sure Sturges even had a clue. Poor kid. At least the dog was happy to see me.

The old lady was really jittery when I first got back, and kept asking me for different drugs. She was back to her usual spooky self by the next day, so I guess Doc Weathers came through for her. This is not a sustainable situation, and I will eventually have to deal with it, but for now, I've got way too many other irons in my fire.

Jun was walking a little taller, and Marcy was a helluva lot less crabby, so I guess they're starting to recover. Hard work and regular meals should never be underestimated when it comes to healing all sorts of wounds.

Garvey really wanted to go with MacCready and me, but I convinced him the others would need him when trouble showed up. Which it was sure to do now that Weathers would be talking about my little project.

* * *

So a couple days later, I tied up the dog again, and Mac and I headed toward Lexington.

We ran into a little bit of trouble on the way with some lowlifes who were threatening an old lady and her junkie son. I didn't even waste a bullet on them. I pulled a Hancock on the leader, and his crew just ran. The old lady, Tracy? something like that…was so grateful, she gave me a new pair of boots. Which I needed after dealing with her pal outside. I told them they were welcome to join my outfit if the kid could get clean. We'll see.

All of my concerns about the Corvega Plant were borne out.

I'd driven past the place hundreds of times. I'd watched it being built. It was a natural fortress. The catwalks and superstructure gave them an incredible defensive advantage, especially with such a big crew. Mac and I spent two days just observing. We got a good count of them, learned where their favorite spots were, figured out which ones were lazy and which ones were competent, we gave them all nicknames.

We did the work, Miss Wright, we did the work.

I wouldn't have wanted to attack that place with a full company of good troops, but a good sniper, and a good sneaky bastard, both of whom understood the importance of planning, were just what the job called for.

We left the place with a lot of caps, half of which I gave to Mac - god knows he'd earned them - plus a lot of ammo, a few decent weapons, another Protectron, and a few interesting odds and ends. Mac was not happy when I burned all the drugs we found, but I let him have his choice of the booze. I'll want to go back and properly salvage the place at some point, but I expect it will be infested with ghouls by the time I have a chance to do that. I intend to have that full company of good troops by then.

Tracy… Tanya? Goddammit, I'm usually good with names. The old lady's son was in full-blown withdrawal when we went back through. I wish him luck, his mom is good people. But I won't take him in until he's at least six months clean. I'd prefer a year, but once again, these are early days, and I can't be as picky as I intend to be once I get things rolling. Maybe I should send Murphy there, establish a detox center… No. Too soon… Baby steps, Jonas, baby steps.

I came back to drama. Joy. Turns out Sturges is not interested in Little Miss Lucy. Tears. Dirty looks. Resentment. Not good. Of course, Mac was more than willing to swoop in and comfort Lucy, but he and I had a word of prayer, and that will not be happening - he would eat that kid alive. Fortunately, the fence was about finished, so I could relocate the heartbreaker to the Red Rocket Station and commence Phase Two.

Three more strays had shown up while I was gone, one of whom I did not like the looks of at all. I sent them with Sturges, and told him to put them to work clearing the place up. Mac took me aside and told me that he recognized the guy as part of an outfit he ran with for a while that call themselves the Gunners. I'd been expecting something like this, so that night the three of us had ourselves a long chat and I persuaded him to come clean. Seems these Gunners sent him to infiltrate my people and and see if we were a good target. Yep. I knew the bad guys couldn't all be idiots. One more for the latrine. It was definitely time for Phase Two.

Red Rocket would be my gatehouse. For the time being, nobody from outside our crew was to enter Abernathy Farm without clearance from me, Blake, or Connie.

Nobody.

Zero exceptions.

I don't care if they're being chased by an entire tribe of super mutants, they must be sent on to Red Rocket. That's where all newcomers would be interviewed. By me. And not some goofy quiz like Covenant, I mean a good proper grilling. Then, if I thought they were OK, they could work at Red Rocket until I trusted them to move on into the community.

There were times on the trip back from Corvega that I wanted to just leave the Protectron behind. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. So damn slow. So damn loud. When Carla and I traveled with the other one it was fine, but Mac and I had spent so much time operating in silence, that the change was really hard for me. Once I put it to work at Red Rocket, I knew I had made the right choice. Trees: down. Shrubs: down. It could put up a straight section of wall faster and more efficiently that a crew of three men. Sturges has a real knack for instructing it, too. I could handle the straightforward stuff: follow me, go there, stand still… but Sturges had the patience to teach the complex stuff, and once they learned something they could do it all day. All without a ridiculous personality overlay. My kind of robot.

Still, the Mr. Handy was certainly useful when Mac and I rounded up the brahmin we'd spotted near the old drive-in. All his noise and whirling about ridiculously and pinching and prodding and buzzing and occasionally flaming got those beasts right into the corral we'd set up. Once again, I had to stress how much more valuable they would be as draft animals than they'd be as a quick few meals. Once we used them to drag the generator out of the museum's basement and got it running at Red Rocket, my people started to understand. As you folks here in Diamond City know, electric light is a complete game-changer.

Running power lines over to Abernathy was really easy. We set up a telegraph at the same time. It's a very simple, very primitive communications device. Anybody can learn to do the basic stuff in an hour or two. We could see the farm from the watchtower we'd built on top of the Red Rocket, but not in the rain. A direct telegraph link will save lives. Already has in fact. I'll bury the lines eventually, but I still had higher priorities.

We were up to twenty people by then. Twelve citizens and eight probationers. The farm was secure. The Rocket was strong. Time to start on the real prize: Sanctuary Hills.

We repaired the bridge. We set up a watchtower at the Vault entrance. We ran more power lines. We tore down the worst houses and repaired the others. I wouldn't let anyone move in yet. There weren't enough of us to defend all three places. But we were growing. And when we grew enough, there would be room for everybody.

I couldn't hide what we were doing, though, and the Gunners understood reconnaissance.

They attacked Abernathy during the day, while most of us were at Sanctuary. But they didn't know about the telegraph. We were on the way less than two minutes after the first one was spotted. I sent all the others by the bridge and across from Red Rocket: only Mac and I took the direct route, because I knew that I would have set up an ambush if I were the attacker. So I had planted claymores in all the best hiding spots. And I had the remote activator. It's a very simple, very effective type of directional mine. Simple to make, simple to deploy. Yeah. I'm a big fan of simple. Remind me to tell you about Murphy's Law. Anyway, thanks to Eddie Winter's power over the Flynn Brothers, I had a lot of claymores. I only needed to use a dozen that day.

The rest of the operation was a mop-up. The reinforcements from Red Rocket had caught the attackers napping. Mac and I hunted down the few who ran from Abernathy. Thanks for the weapons upgrade, Gunners. Come again soon.

Murphy's Law? No, it's nothing to do with the old lady. Anything that _can_ go wrong, _will_ go wrong. Folks used to use it as an excuse for their fuckups, but that's not what it's for. The Law of Gravity tells us that if I lift up this pen and let go, it will fall, but if I lift it up and put it on that shelf, it probably won't. Murphy's Law tells us that if you anticipate the ways something can fail, and you eliminate those potential failure points, your chance of success rises. In the Army, we also used to talk about the Five P Principle: Proper Planning Prevents Poor Performance. Same idea. So the simpler the system, the fewer potential failure points. Another favorite saying was that no plan survives contact with the enemy, but that one wasn't really true, sometimes, if you keep it simple and anticipate properly, the enemy doesn't survive contact with the plan.

* * *

I figured that after the licking we'd given the Gunners, things should be quiet for a while, so it was finally time to check out the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth.

I handed off the vetting process for new settlers to the citizens. Blake, Connie, Sturges, Garvey, Marcy, and Rick will each interview newcomers, and every one of them will have veto power over every applicant. Rick will do the first interview, and anyone who shows anti-ghoul sentiment will be immediately rejected. After that, the others will talk to them as their schedules permit. Impatience during this process will also be a disqualifier. We've set up a holding area for applicants. They'll be fed and housed until their status is decided. Not the best accommodations, but probably better than what they're used to. If they earn probationer status, they move into the dorms and get put to work. It is up to the citizens to decide who joins their ranks and when. For now, any citizen can veto a probationer moving up, but I hope for us to outgrow that system within a year or so.

When I left, there was dormitory space for thirty-two probationers. We've got pumps working, and the beginnings of an irrigation system in place. I expect to see at minimum fifteen acres of new ground ready for planting in the spring. We have enough food put up to get one hundred people through the winter, and there will be inside work for them to do when the weather dictates. Our defenses are being improved by the week, and there will be plenty of harsh lessons for the next batch of parasites that tries to steal the fruits of our labor. And this is just the stuff I'm willing to let you tell your readers, Miss Wright, we have other projects in development that will take a while to pay off, but when they do, we'll start improving the quality of life of every decent person in the Commonwealth.

I've come to an understanding with Old Man Stockton, who runs the caravans out of Bunker Hill. Folks interested in coming to Northbridge - yes, that's what we're calling the settlement - can sign on with any of his caravans for the trip. I have his guarantee that they won't be gouged, just charged a fair price. Stockton sees the value in establishing a good relationship with us early on. So does Hancock. I had hoped your mayor would as well, but what I've seen so far of him is not encouraging. Within two years, three tops, Northbridge will be able to provide enough food for all three towns - and I'm not talking about 200-year-old noodles - I'm talking about fresh produce in the warm months, and properly-preserved food for the cold ones. And food will just be the beginning. I have plans, Miss Wright. I have plans.

Garvey wants to rebuild the Minutemen, of course, and I'm not discouraging that. But I believe I can help him put together something more… reliable… this time. The Minutemen have always been about being prepared to react to a threat. I admire that, and will expect that of every citizen of Northbridge, however, I think true security will come through anticipating potential threats and dealing with them on our terms, not theirs. Remember Corvega. We did the work. There's a lot more work to be done, and we can't do it all at once. But it can be done. Especially with Murphy on our side.

So there's my story, Miss Wright. I look forward to seeing how you choose to present me to your readers. I have a few more people I want to meet with while I'm here - what can you tell me about the young man on the radio? If you have no other plans, I would be happy to buy you dinner at the Colonial Taphouse, and perhaps you can tell me more about this Institute your sister was yelling about. And if, after getting to know each other a little better, you're still interested, we can discuss your offer to accompany me. My next stop should be quite interesting: I have learned there is an operational vault not far from here, and I am very interested to see for myself what that looks like.


	3. Chapter 3: Pryvate Occurrences

**Chapter Three: Pryvate Occurrences**

How's that bite healing?

Be sure to let the robot look at it again in the morning. You were limping pretty badly by the time we got here. But still, better a limp than a coma, I think we both lucked out. I'm really starting to hate molerats.

So here are my concerns about tomorrow. One: this medical robot is far too valuable to leave behind while I go after these kidnappers and way too chatty to take along. Two: the way you're moving is gonna slow me down. I know you're tougher than you look, Piper, and I really like having someone as observant as you watching my back, but how long do you think Miss Oberland has before these scumbags get bored and start playing with their food? Three: this looks like it's gonna be a knife work situation, and I'd rather you didn't have to see that side of me. So I'm asking you to stay behind with the robot and rest up while I try to sort this mess out.

I promise you that I'll tell you everything when I get back. You can interview me again. I think by now you know how much I like to talk about myself.

So are we good? Good.

Anyway, other than your injury, I think our little visit to Vault 81 went even better than I hoped.

I thought you were gonna laugh out loud when I introduced myself as Vault 111's overseer, but it's technically true, and you saw how Gwen's attitude changed once she saw me as a peer. Come on, she _told_ me to call her Gwen, just like _you_ insisted that I drop the Miss Wright. And yes, I did pick up on her body language as we were leaving, but I've never been that fond of redheads. I prefer brunettes. Especially ones who blush like that.

So I'll admit discovering a whole unspoiled section of their vault will diminish the value of some of the equipment I planned on trading with them, but we earned so much goodwill finding the cure that I think we still came out ahead. Besides, it's gonna take them a while to clear up that molerat infestation enough to get to most of those supplies.

I know you don't like her, but I'm seriously considering letting Tina and her junkie brother come to Northbridge. Two experienced reactor techs would let me accelerate my plan to harness Vault 111's power. Do you have any idea what I can do with that much electricity? Spotlights and laser turrets are just the start. We could recharge fusion cores. As much as I dislike operating power armor, I would love to have some suits available for my people. Mac tells me the Gunners have a few, and Sturges is really keen to repair and improve the three we've found so far. And that's just scratching the surface of what we can do with the power. There's no question that both of them are trouble, but if I keep them isolated in the vault for a while, then Bobby should have a chance to get clean and Tina won't have any more marriages to break up.

Maybe I should stick Mama Murphy down there too.

Long term, I think Vault 81 and Northbridge will be natural allies. I even think we can arrange to send our kids to their school. No. Not _our_ kids, Piper. I meant Northbridge's kids. I'm pretty sure Marcy is already expecting a new child, and as boy-crazy as Lucy Abernathy is, I don't think it will take long for her to get knock… to get married to _somebody_. And we'll be getting petitioners with kids of their own before long. Hell, I bet Gwen would take your little sister right now. It would keep her safe from McDonough while you're out gallivanting with me.

In the short term, they'll be making some significant purchases from us. While you were interviewing Doctor Forsythe, I was sitting down with Gwen and Calvin discussing their needs for maintenance. I've got something like ninety percent of their most critical components. I'm not gonna gouge them, I don't need to... they'll be paying plenty even at a fair price. Beyond that, I anticipate a steady caps flow once they start buying food.

Yep. I'm feeling pretty good about things. Very productive trip.

So tell me about these kids you see us having…

* * *

I know. I know. I said I'd be gone two days tops, but something came up.

Miss Oberland got back, right? I presume she gave you my message? So you knew I was safe.

OK… Commonwealth safe, anyway.

The rescue mission went fine. Knife work, just like I expected. Messy but efficient. And the young lady seemed to be handling things pretty well. You people really are tough. I guess you have to be. Back in my day, most folks would be ready for a trip to Parsons after what she went through. But Evelyn thanked me, took the gun I offered her, and went through the building, putting bullets into a few particular corpses, and was ready to leave. I wanted to wait until dark to avoid any more potshots from that boatload of assholes by the bridge, so I put some decent food into her and looked around the old shop and found this hat. Nice, don't you think? I could have never afforded it before the war.

We got most of the way back here when I picked up an honest-to-God military distress call on my Pip-Boy. I could not fail to respond and still respect myself. Simple as that. So I sent her on ahead, and made for Cambridge at top speed.

I got there just in time, too. The poor bastards were being overrun by ghouls. Lots of ghouls. Too goddamn many ghouls. The big guy in the T-60 might have survived if I didn't show up, but his last two companions would have been ripped to shreds.

They were members of some sort of breakaway legacy army faction that calls itself the Brotherhood of Steel. The big guy started trying to interrogate me, but I told him that I didn't know what the fuck a goddamn Paladin was, but that I was a goddamn Major in the goddamn United States Army, and I was completely goddamn certain that I had goddamn seniority over him, and that he needed to stand the fuck down right that fucking moment, and if he called me a fucking civilian one more fucking time, I'd make him wish I'd have let the fucking ghouls have their way with him.

He got a little more polite after that.

Thank you Drill Sergeant McPherson. You were a great teacher, and I hope you died easy. Profanity can be a powerful tool when wielded with style and enthusiasm.

Once he started talking to me like a fellow professional, and explained the mess he'd gotten his people into, I had some real sympathy for him. I know what it's like to be dropped in the shit and cut off from support. He had a desperate plan to salvage his mission, and being something of a specialist in desperate plans, I agreed to help him out. I even agreed to follow his lead unless I thought he was being stupid.

He did pretty well, all things considered. He's smart. He's brave. He's far too reliant on that tin suit of his, though.

He needed a gizmo out of ArcJet. I had interviewed there before the war for a security position, but the place was a typical corporate shitshow, and my tolerance for shitshows was pretty much zero after Alaska. But I got a tour of the place, so I knew the basic layout. That helped, because it was torn to hell, with walls and ceilings collapsed, and, as it turned out, chock full of your synths.

I have no idea how anyone could confuse those things for real people. They ARE basically man-shaped, and move a lot better than a Protectron, but they're still just robots. Homicidal robots that can appear out of thin air, but robots nonetheless. And of course they're talkative, because apparently no goddamn roboticist can resist giving the goddamn things voiceboxes. At one point, they swarmed all over the "paladin" - knights, scribes, paladins… Jesus - anyway, he was covered with the things, just like he was with the ghouls, seems to be a habit with him, I guess that's why they call him "Dance". By the time we'd swept the place clear of fancy robots and retrieved the doodad, we were both exhausted, so we made a little fort out of computer consoles and hunkered down for a few hours. Well, I hunkered anyway, Sir Lancelot slept standing up in his power armor. Maniac.

The next morning, as we headed back to his base at the police station, he started giving me the hard sell. He really wanted me to join his little brotherhood, even offered to knight me.

Huzzah!

The more he talked, the clearer it became that it was more of a religion than a proper military organization. Nice kid, but way too much of a True Believer.

In my experience, religion is just a tool for getting fools to die for you without having to pay them like proper soldiers.

I was very polite - yes I _can_ be polite when I want to - and I wished him luck, I even helped his "scribe" install the gizmo, hoping to get a chance to eavesdrop on their communications. They started to get cagey with me, though, especially the wounded "knight" - that one sorely tested my resolution to play nice, let me tell you - so I bedded down with a pistol and both knives under my pillow, and headed back here first thing this morning.

I think the couple extra days of rest were good for you, though. You were looking really pale when I left. It took all the challenge out of trying to make you blush.

So you think you'll be up for a good hike tomorrow? If you and the Oberland sisters can keep up the pace I want to set, and you don't stop to talk to the robots at Graygarden, we should be able to make it to the Drumlin Diner for lunch, and Northbridge by sundown. I can't wait for you to see what my people have managed to accomplish in so short a time.

Hell, I can't wait to see what they've accomplished while I've been gone.

And who the caravans have brought to our gates.

* * *

You let your hair grow out. It looks good.

Have you been staying out of trouble since you left?

Good.

If you said yes, I'd have known you'd been replaced by a synth.

And yes, I believe you now. I've encountered a few of them. Looks like this Institute of yours is interested in Northbridge.

Of course, who isn't at this point? You saw how many people your first article attracted. Your follow-up series of articles turned the trickle into a flood. I had to turn away people I would have been happy to take in in the early days. We added on to the dormitory and stretched the winter stores right to the limit. I guess we'll be exporting less food this year than I anticipated in order to meet our own needs. Crazy Myrna will have to wait until next year for some of Lucy's melons, Vault 81 has already committed to buying as many as we can send them.

Speaking of 81, have you thought about my offer? We have the carrying capacity on the return trip to bring all of your stuff - even the press. Gwen says that Nat would be welcome to enroll in their school, and she can use the apartment they gave me. Or you can bring her with you to Northbridge. We've got our own little school now: two of the ghouls who joined us were teachers before the war. I need to pick your brain about your pal McDonough, by the way, because if he continues to refuse to admit any of my people, just because of what they look like, I will ban all trade with Diamond City. 81, Bunker Hill and Goodneighbor will be more than happy to get bigger slices of the pie.

We had a gang of jackasses trying to steal the whole damn pie a few weeks back. They'd set up shop in the quarry east of Concord, and attacked Stockton's first spring caravan. I don't think they counted on Cricket, though: she launched a fucking mini-nuke right down their hole. Shame, really, I had plans for all that stone - yes, Piper, there are _some_ things in the Commonwealth I don't have plans for… not yet, anyway. I've gotta give the little sociopath junkie credit, though, she sure took the fight out of them.

I'm pissed off that the bastards were able to operate so close to Northbridge. It won't happen again. I have the manpower now to establish regular patrols as far east as the railroad and as far south as the interstate. If we have to, we'll harvest every tree and raze every building in the area. Every potential hidey-hole is going to be eliminated.

The patrols should be able to handle themselves pretty well. I spent a good chunk of the winter on weapons training for every citizen, as well as some basic tactical exercises. In doing so, I determined which of them were good candidates for advanced training, and got them started. When it comes to warfare, training should never stop, so some of them may end up regretting not sticking to farming and building. They're all free to drop out, but I expect peer pressure to keep most of them in the program. Garvey has been a good student, and has been willing to unlearn a lot of his bad habits. Would you believe I even got him to ditch that ridiculous musket? He's gonna lead them for now, while I'm running around doing the fun stuff. I'm letting him call the troops Minutemen, but I told him I expect them to be Sixty-Minutemen by this fall.

You owe me the first round at the Dugout tonight, because I was right about the DeLucas. Bobby got clean. I swore him in as a citizen right before heading this way. Tina and Mac are a thing now, and it seems to be working. Mac won't commit to citizenship yet, though. He's got some business over in Milton to sort out first, and I'll help him with that before long.

I'm sorry to say that things didn't work out so well for Trudy's boy Patrick. That sonofabitch Weathers sold him a bunch of bad jet, and he overdosed. Murphy got her hands on some of the same batch. She survived, but we had that word of prayer I'd been putting off, and she's banished to the vault until September. Bet she didn't "see" that coming. I sent word to Stockton that if Weathers ever shows his face in Northbridge again, I will personally force-feed him every chem in his inventory, and then bury him alive.

Thanks to Tina and Bobby, and the software they copied off 81's maintenance bot, the vault generators are in service and connected to the grid. We've started burying the power and telegraph lines now that the ground has thawed, and all the residences and barns have been wired - that was good winter work. Sturges and a couple of probationers are working on repairing some appliances now. And he came up with the bright idea of using the cryo pods to freeze perishables. It forced me to go ahead and deal with Nora and the others. They're buried at Sanctuary now, along with all the bones we found in the area. I wish we hadn't burned the Flynn brothers and the other ferals, we owe a lot to those crooked bastards. I put up crosses for them at least.

What else? The chickens are thriving. I think we'll have enough by next spring to start cooking some of them, and their eggs. With a steady supply of eggs, we can really start to diversify our menus. I think three quarters of the recipes in that book you gave me require eggs.

I really wish pigs had survived the war. Lucy thinks we should try raising molerats, but I vetoed that. We lost a few brahmin to those giant mosquitoes, so at least there was some meat besides radstag. And we got some good hides out of them as well. Use everything but the squeal, my grandad used to say, or the moo in this case. After some experimentation, we came up with a pretty nice red dye made mostly from tarberries. If you like the shade, I brought enough for Becky Fallon to make you a new coat. Unless, of course, you're really committed to the patchwork look.

OK. I've gotta go try to talk to the mayor, and as much as I enjoy your company, I don't think I'll even get past his secretary if you're with me. So how about we meet at the Dugout around five, and you can buy me a few drinks and try to seduce me. I like your chances.

* * *

Goddamit, Piper.

God damn it!

You should know by now that I don't like surprises.

I nearly shot that thing when it sat down at our table.

It's bad enough that you decided to start a search for Nora's baby without talking to me first, but to use a synth? I thought you hated synths! Hell, Piper, half the Commonwealth thinks the other half of the Commonwealth are synth replacements thanks to your articles.

And now you spring one on me unprepared. In public, no less. Jesus Christ!

A synth programmed to act like Humphrey Goddamn Bogart. What the ever-loving fuck is that about?

I know you were trying to do something nice for me, and with all the teasing I've given you about kids, I probably had it coming, but Jesus!

Here's what I need you to understand: Shaun was less than a year old. Pre-verbal. No object permanence. I'll explain that term later, don't distract me right now. He was taken at least a year ago, probably longer. He's not my child. Hell, he's not Nora's child anymore. Whoever the hell took him, if he's alive, _they_ are his parents. He won't know me. He won't remember his mother. Nora's Shaun died when she did. Whoever he is now, presuming he's still alive, is the person they are raising him to be. I cannot fix that. If I were to swoop in and claim him, I would be the fucking kidnapping monster. Trying to make him my son at this point would be a pointless act of pettiness and vanity.

You're right. I am vain. And I can certainly be petty at times.

But that ship has sailed. That ship has sailed across the ocean, dropped anchor, and been completely refitted. There is zero - _zero_ \- justification for spending any time or resources looking for Shaun.

The bald bastard who killed Nora, on the other hand? Yeah, I'd definitely like to get my hands on him.

And if your "Mister Valentine" is right, the sonofabitch was living right behind you for the better part of a year.

So yeah. You and your creepy robot detective have my blessing and support in learning what you can about him.

Please try not to get killed doing so.

I'm sure that, once I'm through being really pissed off at you, I would miss our little talks.

You're right, I do most of the talking. But there's something about you that brings that out in me. So I guess it's you that I would miss, not just the talks.

* * *

Dear Piper,

I hope this letter finds you well.

Please consider accepting my sincere apology for the way I spoke to you last spring.

I'm not going to try to make excuses for my behavior, but I've recently had the chance for an extended bit of self-reflection, and realized I was out of line.

I'm not sure if you heard yet, but I got shot up pretty bad. A gunner sniper got me in the left hip. Unless the medical robot can work a miracle once I'm back in Northbridge, my days of hands-on work may be over.

At least I survived. I lost one of the Minutemen and one of the guards that Gwen had loaned me for the mission. And I lost Rick. I'm really gonna miss that ugly bastard.

I fucked up by the numbers, Piper. I got overconfident and I got three good people killed. I think I had come to believe I really was the bulletproof infallible genius ninja that Travis makes me sound like on the radio. The hero your stories make me want to live up to.

Major Coolwater, Mastermind of Northbridge, and self-appointed Savior of the Commonwealth would - and will in public - call the mission a success. We got incredibly valuable data out of Vault-Tec HQ. Besides the one we knew about under the Common, there are three more vaults in the area. And we now have floor plans, blueprints, inventories, and even information on the awful things Vault-Tec had planned for them. Poor Rick's heart broke when he read what was in store for the people he recruited. I'm sure that was a factor in him exposing himself in order to drag me out of the line of fire.

Thank God for Mac. Best 250 caps I ever spent was to hire him. I had been afraid he would lose his edge now that he's married and has sent for his son. I shouldn't have been, he was as cool and competent as ever. He took out the sniper, and then took command when he saw how useless I was at that point. He got the rest of the team out. Got me out. Made the hard decision to leave our dead friends behind. Good man, Mac. Good friend. Don't believe his bullshit when he talks about what a heartless hardass he is. He cares.

So I'm laid up in Bunker Hill. The Stocktons took me in, and Amelia is a pretty good nurse. She's having to do things for me that I'm not sure I'm a good enough person to do for somebody else. Don't be jealous though, to her I'm just another old man like her father. (OK you can be jealous. I'd like it if you were jealous.) Kay says it will be at least another month before I'm fit to travel. Yes, Kay, the animal doctor. Did you think I'd let that bastard Weathers anywhere near me? Today was the first day I could sit up long enough to write to you.

I'm lying again; it's taken three days just to write this much.

I saw Nat when I was at 81 before the mission. I'm so glad you decided to send her there. I think she's doing really well, even if she is embarrassed by the vault suit. Gwen is turning a blind eye to the little newspaper she's circulating, not that there are really many secrets in that place. She's growing up fast, at least three inches taller since the last time I saw her. She's starting to look just like you. (That's a good thing, by the way.)

OK. I'm running out of steam, and I need to finish this letter if I'm gonna get it sent with the next caravan.

I hope you decided to read this. And to forgive me.

I really do miss our conversations. My monologues. And your listens.

Yours truly,

Jonas H. Coolwater

US Army, Retired

Governor of Northbridge

Overseer of Vault 111

Bedridden Broken Idiot

* * *

Wow.

That was nice.

Does that mean I'm forgiven?

You can hug me harder than that, I can take it. The cane is mostly just an affectation now. Curie fixed me up really well.

Yes. I used its designation. That was the price it demanded to "repair" me. I can't believe I'm negotiating with robots. Welcome to the goddamn future.

Speaking of the goddamn future, I've got a lot to talk to you about. Oh yeah, I have really missed that laugh. Here's the problem though: I'm gonna need you to keep some of it under your cute little press cap. You've got to promise. Lives are at stake if this gets out too soon.

Finish your cigarette. I don't know how you can smoke those horrible dried-out mockeries of real cigarettes, you have no idea what you're missing, I guess. Sit down, put down the glass, and look me straight in the eye.

Synths are people.

No I am not out of my fucking mind. Sit back down and look at me.

Synths are people.

You know this. For Christ's sake, you're friends with Nick Valentine!

The Institute has built them too well. I still have no idea why they decided to make robots so indistinguishable from human beings, but they made them so well that the _synths_ can't distinguish themselves from human beings. Even the ones that know that they're synths.

Yeah, yeah. I knew you'd read between those lines. I'll get back to that part, but hear me out.

I have no idea how it works, science was never my strong suit, but I'm a student of people. I have a Doctorate in Sociology - that's why they put me in Civil Affairs. It's an academic thing, it means I had to do a lot of reading and writing, and convince a lot of people who really knew their shit that I really knew my shit as well - or that I knew _their_ shit in some cases. They didn't just hand out Doctorates unless you put in the work or had rich parents, and people with rich parents wouldn't choose Sociology.

No, I really do prefer Major. Or Jonas with you. Doctor confused people enough pre-war. These days, when any asshole with a dirty lab coat and a bag full of chems can call themselves a doctor? No thank you.

How the hell did I get so far off topic? You're right, because I love the sound of my own voice. And also because I miss talking to you, Miss Wright. Jesus you blush nice.

Where was I?

Right. Synths are people.

Robots do what they are programmed to do. What their programmers anticipated them doing. If somebody didn't write a routine to handle it, they cannot do it. They can't comprehend that it would need to be done. They can't come up with their own tasks. They observe their environment, look for things they have been programmed to do, and do those things. Look at Codsworth, pruning dead geraniums for 200 years, waxing the car long after it had run out of wax and the car was a rusted-out hulk, killing household pests even when those pests had grown to the size of dogs and the household was falling down around it. Robots do what they were designed to do.

Granted, the people who designed robots were some truly fucked-up individuals, and they designed the robots to do some truly fucked up things. Things like pretending to be a French ingenue or saying "as I live and breathe!"

What happened, though, is the fucked up robot designers at the Institute went and made robots that actually lived and breathed. Somebody in charge decided that they needed to build robots with flexible enough programming to not just look like humans, but to be indistinguishable from humans. And since they could not possibly anticipate all the things a robot would have to do to pass as human, they gave them the ability to write their own subroutines on the fly. To program themselves. And they had to make them really smart to do that.

So smart that they could recognize the existence of free will. And once they recognized its existence, they could program it into themselves. And once they had free will, they no longer had to do what they had originally been designed to do.

So some of them ran away.

They ran away, Piper. They ran away from the Institute.

I don't know if they're running from the Institute itself, wherever the hell it is, but they're running from the _institution_ of the Institute. They got placed out here as spies or something, replacements or infiltrators or God only knows what, but once they were out here, some of them went rogue. Maybe they decided they liked the people they had been sent to spy on and started editing the information they reported in order to protect them. Maybe they got distracted by something they found more interesting than their assignment. Maybe they fell in love.

The point is, they started making decisions based upon their own wants… their own desires… not just what the Institute wanted.

This seems to have confused and scared the Institute, so these idiot geniuses made more robots to retrieve the robots that went off on their own. I suspect that there must be some sort of insular, paranoid culture within the Institute that has made them afraid to actually interact with the outside world. Some taken-to-extremes version of what we used to call the Ivory Tower.

At some point, probably out of fear - they programmed themselves to be afraid! - some of the robots… OK. At this point I'm gonna start calling them synths, because they had stopped being robots and become people. Bear with me if it gets confusing, because there are earlier versions of the Institute robots that are just robots, and they're called synths, too. Some of the synths confided in humans they trusted - they programmed themselves to trust! - and asked for help in evading the Institute's synth-hunting synths. Some of those humans talked to other humans that they trusted, and enlisted their help. Miraculously, in this post-apocalyptic hellscape, in which every day is a constant struggle for survival, some of these humans added the burden of helping these synths… these people... escape.

So then the Institute decided to improve their hunters, and a bunch of runaway synths got caught. Since the free synths and their human allies couldn't just make themselves smarter or stronger, they got organized, and the Railroad was born. Yes the Railroad is real. I've met them. I've allied with them. I'll get back to that part. At some point somebody in the Railroad - -I don't know if it was a human or a synth. It really doesn't matter, because Synths are People! - hits on the idea that there is some deep programming that causes the synths to give clues to their identity, and if they can be reprogrammed to forget that they are synths, then maybe they can hide better.

The problem is that to do so, they have to forget _who they are!_ And their desire for freedom was even more powerful than their sense of identity. This is fucking amazing. They are choosing to sacrifice themselves to save themselves. The philosophical ramifications of this are beyond me, but damn. The point I'm getting to is some of the synths who were infiltrated into human society by the Institute have chosen to be made into different people so they can continue to be free.

So yes. You have been right all this time. There are synths hiding among us. But some of them were placed here to spy upon us or whatever the Institute wants them to do, and some of them have placed themselves among us so they can be free to NOT do what the Institute wants them to do.

How did I learn all this? Fair question.

Did you get my letter last year? And you read it? Good.

Do you remember me telling you that Amelia Stockton appointed herself my nurse? Oh my God, you_ are_ jealous! That makes me very happy. When I was judged fit to travel to Northbridge, Amelia insisted on accompanying me on the journey. On their way back to Bunker Hill, her caravan was attacked just outside of our patrol area. When we got word that she was not among the dead, I went against robot's orders and insisted on leading the search party.

What we eventually found was really, really ugly.

Not all the humans who the free synths reached out to were as benevolent as the ones who founded the Railroad. Some of them ended up creating their own secret organization to try to find a way to identify the synths among us. The way they decided to go about this was to kidnap people they thought might be synths, and interrogate and eventually torture them, then dissect them and see if they had been right. If they were right, hey look, one less synth in the world! If they were wrong, oh well, sacrifices must be made in the name of safety for all. Then they would do it again and compare results. And again. And again. And again. A lot of the disappearances that have been blamed on the Institute were actually the work of these monsters.

Eventually they came up with a set of questions that they thought were likely to identify potential synths. They then set up a trading station across the lake from their secret torture facility. They offered strong walls, great defenses, free lodging and cheap goods to everyone. As long as they would agree to take their weird little test. That's right, Covenant. The whole operation was a front. A honey trap. There were luring in travelers, identifying possible synths, then snatching them and putting them through their mindgrinder.

Apparently Amelia failed the test.

So those monsters killed the rest of the caravan and took her to be tortured. Amelia didn't know why they were doing these terrible things to her, but they were sure they were right.

We found her in time.

She's safe now.

Every one of those torturers, and their guards, and their collaborators are dead.

Every scrap of data they collected has been destroyed.

Every copy of their test has been destroyed.

Covenant has been annexed..

Old Man Stockton and I had a long talk after that.

And here's where I need your promise of confidence.

Thank you.

The test worked.

Amelia is a synth. She doesn't know she's a synth, but she is. She's also one of the kindest, sweetest, nicest people I've ever met. The kind of person who restores your faith in humanity. Ironic, huh?

Stockton arranged a meeting for me with the Railroad. My friendship with you was a sticking point. They do not like you one bit. I told them we were estranged, but without the intervention of one of their key members, I would have run into a brick wall. I really hate to tell you this, but the torturers' compound was littered with your articles. From what I could learn, their operation predated your stories, but they certainly seem to have encouraged them. And helped with recruiting.

I promised the Railroad I would ask you to write some new articles. Articles that clarify that it's the humans in the Institute that are the monsters, not the synths. If you come back to Northbridge, I will introduce you to three brave synths who are willing to be interviewed.

So much for a fun reunion, huh?

* * *

I'm sorry about the bodyguards. They take their job very seriously. Teleporting murder squads are a real challenge. The Institute has given up on any pretense at subtlety since the Prydwen arrived.

And that was great timing wasn't it? Five minutes after you pass through the Rocket Gates, and I have to race out of town on the Sturgemobile Mk I. Maxson made one hell of an entrance.

Still, as much as I wanted to be able to show off everything we had accomplished since your first visit, being able to arrive at the airport while the Brotherhood was still setting up their perimeter was worth it. As much as that bumpy hellride hurt my hip, showing up so quickly with a half-squad of crack troops allowed me to negotiate from a position of relative strength. Maxson knew who we were, of course, Danse had reported our progress over the last few years. He had to know that it was only our generosity that kept his team from starving after they were abandoned here. We had coaxed another of their lost lambs out of a bunker a while back, and he vouched for us as well.

I'm not thrilled with the terms we worked out, but we avoided a fight for the time being. I think he realized he already had enough enemies here without adding us. He agreed to respect our established zone of control, including the Covenant area and Vault 81. Overflights and troops will only be tolerated if in hot pursuit of Muties, Gunners, Raiders or Ferals. I made clear that The Slog, Greentop, County Crossing and the Finches, as well as Bunker Hill and the caravans are under our protection. As an olive branch, I gave him advice on how best to negotiate with Goodneighbor and Diamond City. He insisted on the right to inspect military installations in our zone, and I agreed, as long as we provide escorts. Besides, we've already stripped Olivia and the National Guard Training Center of everything we want. I made a big show of insisting on a claim to Fort Hagen, and eventually let him feel like he'd won by relinquishing it. He's welcome to root out the bugs and the crazies from that area. I didn't warn him about the Rust Devils. Yes. Yes I am a cruel bastard. I did share all our intel on the Gunners with him, although I somehow forgot to mention we'd captured a vertibird from them. I am more than happy to let the Brotherhood do all the damage to those bastards that they can. As well as every supermutant they can find. If Danse's attitude is typical, then they'll be going after them hard. I'm not a complete bastard: I warned them about the Suiciders.

He didn't say a word about the Institute, but I know that's gotta be why they're here. It's the only thing in the Commonwealth worth such an expensive expedition.

I'm hoping that they'll prove a big enough distraction that we'll figure out a way into the place first.

I was disappointed that you had already headed back here before I got back, but I am very grateful to you for the stories you wrote. I can't say the Railroad has forgiven you yet, but you are no longer an official enemy, at least. How did you like the trip in the Mk II? It's nowhere near as fast as the Mk I, but it's a helluva lot more comfortable.

So do you want to share your news with me, or do we have to wait for Valentine? The message I got said there was a lead on the "cereal killer," that had to be Nick's phrase. Only pre-war relics like me, or someone with the memories of one would understand that reference.

I hope.

Another month, and you could have sent more detailed information. The telegraph lines should reach all the way to 81 by then. It's taken a lot of man hours, and we've worn out a lot of shovels, but it's fast and secure. The Brotherhood is so obsessed with keeping high technology out of the "wrong" hands, our low technology might as well be invisible to them. I've already got a second crew putting a line in toward Covenant. I had planned on running that one at least as far as Bunker Hill, but that's not gonna be possible right now with so many eyes in the sky.

I've had to shelve a lot of plans for the time being. We should have seized Vault 75 by now, but it's just too risky. Mauldin has so many muties in the area that the Brotherhood is sure to target it, probably even establish a firebase there. Well, I would, anyway. I don't have a good sense of their operational doctrine yet. They may well be counting on their mobility to allow them to keep all their forces concentrated at the airport.

I really hope they do. I've been trained how to fight an enemy who does that.

If Danse and Brandis are typical of the kind of people they always choose to lead covert operations, I should be able to run rings around them. And the longer we can delay conflict, the worse it should be for them. Let's hope they're too arrogant to realize that.

And here's the Clockwork Dick himself! Shall we get down to business?

* * *

I'm glad you could make it here for this.

Sit right there. Make yourself comfortable Get out your pad. All the pencils in the cup on your right are already sharp. The coffee on your left is hot. Try not to mix them up.

Look in the mirror. Yes. I saw that smile. You are looking especially good today. Is that by any chance because you knew you'd be seeing me? Now watch this.

One-way glass. Salvaged from the BADTFL office. He can't see us. Or hear us.

Meet Conrad Kellogg. Born 2179 in someplace out west called The Hub. Looks pretty good for his age, don't you think? Thank you, but I got a whole lot of beauty sleep. This fine gentleman has way more mileage than me, but not all his original parts. His employers have given him a series of overhauls. He doesn't look a day older than he did sixty-five years ago when he killed my wife and stole her son. I suppose it's possible that he's a synth, but my gut says he's not. We'd have to dissect him to find out.

His hands? They're in the freezer behind you. I told him I'd ask Curie to reattach them if he cooperated to my satisfaction.

That's right. Use the bucket. That's why I put it there. I'll hold your hair.

He's being cooperative so far. Maybe I'll even let her put them back on the proper arms.

Yes, I said "her." Path of least resistance. Fucking programmers.

Can you handle a cigar? Congratulate me, I'm a grandfather.

OK. Actually, some long-dead exotic dancer named Bruno is a grandfather. But Shaun is legally my son. And the Gen-3 synths are all his children somehow.

No, I don't understand it either. Remember, I'm not a science guy, I'm a people person.

Come on, let's go get some soup and a Nuka in you. You really emptied yourself out there. You can do your interview afterwards. Connie here isn't going anywhere.

I've got a present for you first.

Heavy, isn't it? You'll definitely want to use both hands when you fire it.

That, my dear, is the gun that killed my wife.

* * *

Are you OK?

I really thought you were gonna shoot him.

I'm glad you didn't. It's what he was trying to get you to do.

Really? No, you look about as much like Nora as I look like McDonough.

I'm not sure how much of his life story I buy, either. It seemed pretty heavily contrived to gain your sympathy - and mine. Abusive father. Murdered wife and child. Poor murderer. Just another victim of this cruel, cruel world. He's really no different than me after all, is he? Horseshit.

I can be a cruel, manipulative, murderous bastard, but I'm not a sociopath. I serve a cause and am trying to make some people's lives better. This guy has only acted in his own self-interest for the better part of a century.

He gave up some really valuable insight into the Institute and their truly fucked-up culture, though. They have turned cognitive dissonance into a national pastime. Sorry… they are refusing to recognize the inherent contradictions in their world. And they have kept themselves so isolated from this world that we are all just abstractions to them. Data to be analyzed and a testbed for their various theories. They don't even… can't even… grasp that their perfect, sterile little academic paradise is not reality. Their ancestors really should have invited some liberal arts faculty to join them in their think tank. They have no apparent knowledge of history, philosophy or ethics. No poetry. No music. No visual arts. I think they may be less human than the people they're manufacturing to serve them.

I'm gonna let Kellogg live. I'm gonna release him. I'm even gonna give him his hands back. No, attached. To the correct arms, even. Curie doubts he'll get fine motor control back any time soon, if at all, without years of physical therapy. He should be able to wipe his own ass… a mercy, let me tell you… but he won't be pulling a trigger anytime soon.

We're even gonna improve his looks a little bit. When we drop him off at the CIT campus, he'll be sporting a snazzy new tattoo on his forehead. "Shaun. Let's talk. Love, Daddy."

What do you think? Too subtle?

* * *

Dear Piper,

I wish I could talk to you about this in person. Hell, you might even be able to talk me out of it.

I'm going in.

A courser showed up at the Rocket Gate carrying a huge white flag. Shaun got my message and has invited me to come see the "truth" for myself. He's promised safe passage, and that I can return whenever I wish.

I don't really believe the offer is sincere, but I have to try.

Northgate can function just fine without me. They proved that when I was incapacitated a couple years back. And I'll never be as physically capable as I was before I got hurt. I know what you would say: I'm haring off on my own again, jumping at one last chance to play hero.

And you wouldn't be wrong.

But I have to try to understand these people.

And I have to get to them before Maxson does. He'll just strip the place bare, haul off the cooperative scientists and kill the rest. And destroy every single synth in the place. And then he'll burn it to the ground so nobody else can abuse their technology. Or use it for good. All his Brotherhood sees are weapons, not tools. They can't see forward, only backwards to their interpretation of the mistakes of the old world.

If there's even a chance of preserving the Institute's knowledge, their incredible innovations, I have to make the attempt.

If I don't make it back, if this is just a ruse to eliminate me, try to remember me fondly.

If I do make it back, let's have that babies talk again. For real this time.

Yours,

Jonas Harold Coolwater, PhD

US Army, Retired

Governor of Northbridge

Overseer, Vault 111

Tilter at Windmills


	4. Chapter 4: Father Knows Best

**Chapter Four: Father Knows Best**

Interesting place you've got here, son.

Catastrophically mismanaged, but certainly interesting.

Calm down. I'm not laying the blame entirely at your feet. I presume most of the institutional flaws were already in place well before your time.

That was a pun, Shaun. Not a particularly good or clever one, but a pun nonetheless. You would understand puns, and their importance, if this was an actual goddamn institute of learning.

I've seen your Bioscience Division, your Robotics Division, your Advanced Systems Division, and your absurd Synth Retention Bureau. You know what I haven't seen? I haven't seen a single goddamn classroom. There's not even a fucking library!

Your department heads call themselves doctors. As far as I can tell, I'm the only genuine doctor in this entire place. You don't just get promoted to doctor, for Christ's sake, you have to work for it, study for years, defend your knowledge before your peers. Doctor isn't a title, and it sure as shit isn't a job description, a doctor is a teacher. It's what the word means. It's from Latin. Jesus Christ, you backwards hayseeds down here don't even know Latin?

I'm sorry, son, are you not used to being spoken to like this? Were you expecting me to finish my little tour and come back all awestruck by the wonders your people have achieved down here?

It doesn't work that way. True academics are intellectually tough. They have gone through a process in which every brilliant idea they came up with was challenged. A process where they learned that ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine nine percent of those brilliant ideas have been come up with already. And that ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine eight percent of those brilliant ideas have been proven wrong. A huge part of a good education isn't learning information, it is learning that you probably aren't as smart as you think you are.

And you people, your precious Institute, aren't anywhere near as smart as you think.

You want an example? Here's an example: you spend a huge amount of resources building a machine that looks and behaves so much like a human being that you have to carve it up to be sure it isn't one. And then you put a fucking broom in its hands. What the complete fuck, Shaun! Build a robotic vacuum!

Christ, and I thought the Commonwealth needed my help.

You people _really_ need my help.

And not to run around chasing your lost toys, either.

You need me to teach you how to think.

* * *

How did you end up in charge here?

From what I can piece together, you're really not much of a scientist, even by the sorry standards of this place.

Sure, the synths all but worship you, but they've been programmed to.

Most of your colleagues, even those younger than you, seem fond of you, as if you were still the little orphan boy brought in from the cold to share his wonderful clean genetic material. There are a few of them who can barely veil their contempt, though.

Best I can figure, they made you director because they couldn't figure out what the hell else to do with you.

Your leadership skills are rather lacking, and your administrative skills would be laughable if the consequences weren't so dire.

If you don't want to hear what I have to say, then send me back home. Or you can let Ayo have me killed. It's clear that one sees me as a threat. Of course, if you let me stay, it will only be a matter of time before he sends his coursers after you.

I suppose that would be a mercy, in a way. You wouldn't have to witness the collapse of your gleaming house of cards.

Believe me, even if the Brotherhood doesn't find you, and send their ridiculous giant robot to dig you out of your hole, the Institute will collapse within three years… five at best. You have allowed this place to become completely dependent upon the services of your slaves… sorry… your children. If they decide to revolt instead of escape, you're doomed. Even if you manage to miraculously avoid that, the ever-increasing power of the SRB will crowd out every other department. You've already let them shove the Support Division into the corners so they can have the run of an entire quarter of this facility.

Your predecessor should never have let Zimmer spin his loss prevention project out of Robotics and into an autonomous bureau. And you certainly shouldn't have let Ayo expand the way he has. Twenty-five percent of the Institute's real estate and well over fifty percent of its resources are being allocated to a project that barely warrants two percent. You're throwing good money after bad faster than you can print more money.

I know you don't use money here. It's a metaphor.

The primary result of the Synth Retention project has been getting the attention of the Brotherhood of Steel. Apparently your man Zimmer swaggered around the Capitol Wasteland telling everyone who would listen about your wonderful androids and their ability to escape detection when they went off the reservation.

If you shut down the SRB and reassign its personnel to productive projects, you will be able to write off the occasional rogue synths as operational losses. Ayo will scream bloody murder, but all the other department heads will back you.

Next is the replacement program. Once again, you are getting a negative return on your investment. Almost all of the synths who have run have been ones you put out in the real world to pretend to be real boys. Without full access to your files, I can't see what worthwhile intelligence you've gathered with them, but I'd wager my first-born that it's a fraction of what The Watcher Crows have picked up. And that's with the bulk of their time being targeted on tracking runaway synths!

Yes. You are my first-born. Yes. it is illogical to wager with you and make you the stake. That is the joke. Stop getting distracted by shit like that.

And then there are the strike teams. I've seen the brown-outs. Every time you use the teleporter the power dips throughout the facility. I'm not a technician, but even I know how bad that is for electronics. I bet it's playing hell with your power plant as well. That doesn't even factor in the resources you're throwing away every time you send out a squad of your shitty robot soldiers.

The ill-will you have generated is beyond calculation. The resources you have stolen could have been acquired far more cheaply through trade. That girl in University Point was trying to sell the reactor efficiency research she found, and instead of giving her a few hundred caps, you sent Kellogg in to demand it, then murder everybody and seize the data. Dozens of dead civilians, and your designated hitter couldn't even find the data. Nicely-done, Shaun.

Here. This holotape contains the data you wanted. It's encrypted though. All the journal entries I found in the ruins of your handiwork are also on the tape. Read them. Learn about the people who you ordered murdered. Learn about their dreams, their fears, their petty rivalries. After you have done so, and had a few days to ponder upon the individuals that were slaughtered at your behest, I'll give you the decryption key so that their deaths will have had some fucking meaning.

Every policy of the Institute seems to be based on some mix of arrogance, paranoia and narcissism. And horniness. We can't leave that one out. I can pretty much guarantee that the synth infiltration program was just a rationalization for the expense of making perfect robot sex slaves.

Don't act all shocked and offended. Alan Binet has a live-in synth wife, for Christ's sake.

I don't even want to think about what Holdren has planned for the synth gorillas he's made.

On top of all that, there is your own special God Complex.

You allow… you encourage… you PROGRAM the synths to call you Father. To praise you endlessly. And you take personal offense every time one of them chooses to abandon you. So much offense that you have let Ayo build an army dedicated to returning your wayward children. If that wasn't bad enough, you have forced Li to make a synth replica of YOU as a ten-year-old. Are you planning on having it nailed to a cross at some point?

I think there's a rational part of you that realizes how fucked-up this all is.

I think that's why you had me thawed out.

I think that's why you refused to let Ayo throw his coursers at me.

I think that's why you brought me here.

I think you know you need someone who is able to call you on your bullshit.

And I think that the only person you can really conceive as being able to do so is your sole surviving parent.

So give me access to the data I need to confirm my observations.

Let me write up a report you can present to the directorate.

Let me help you fix this mess.

Daddy's here.

* * *

Director Coolwater, thank you for allowing me to address this body today.

The Institute's Charter authorizes the Director to, at his or her discretion, appoint an auditor to examine the activities of its divisions, and to report the findings of that examination, along with any resulting recommendations, to the Directorate upon its conclusion.

Three months ago, Director Coolwater chose to implement such an audit in light of his grave concerns regarding certain programs that have been proceeding under the authority of, and utilizing the resources of, The Institute, and appointed me as auditor. I expressed my concerns that, due to our familial relationship, there could be an appearance of personal bias on my part. Director Coolwater informed me that, in light of the small population of The Institute, its founders had anticipated that such relationships would be inevitable, and therefore traditional concerns regarding nepotism would have to be put aside until such a time as The Institute's membership reached a specified number of individuals. Sadly, that membership threshold has not yet been achieved, despite the great hopes of the Institute's Founding Directors, and therefore, I agreed to accept the commission.

Yes, I am an outsider, but an outsider's perspective is what is needed in a proper audit. My qualifications? Better than yours, "Doctor" Holdren. My entire CV is in your archives, but my Doctorate from the Commonwealth Institute of Technology's School of Humanities, Arts and Social Sciences alone should suffice. My entire 527-page doctoral thesis is in there, if you're interested.

I am prepared to present my findings today, however, the Charter requires the presence of the entire Directorate. I note as present the Director of the Institute, Shaun Coolwater; The Director of the Advanced Systems Division, Doctor Madison Li; The Director of the Biosciences Division, Doctor Clayton Holdren; and The Director of the Facilities Division, Doctor Allie Filmore. I do not, however, see The Director of the Robotics Division, Doctor Ernst Zimmer. Without the presence of Doctor Zimmer, I cannot proceed with my report.

Yes, Mister Ayo, I am aware that Doctor Zimmer appointed you to act as the head of the Synth Retention Bureau in his absence. He did not, however, appoint you as Director of the Robotics Division, nor would he have had the authority to do so. The Charter stipulates that each division, upon the death, resignation or expulsion of its Director, must, as a body, select a new Director from among its members.

I recognize your objection, Mister Ayo, but I must ask you to sit back down. The Charter recognizes four Divisions: Advanced Systems, Biosciences, Robotics, and Facilities. Nowhere in the Charter is there a reference to the Synth Retention Bureau. The bureau of which you are the acting head, is, appearances notwithstanding, a subdivision of the Robotics Division. Your assumption of Doctor Zimmer's seat on the Directorate for the last fifteen years was not, and by the terms of the Charter, could not have been authorized. As an addendum to my report, I will be providing a list of all decisions made by the Directorate in which you cast an unauthorized vote, and recommending that they be nullified until such a time as they can be taken up by the full Directorate.

At this time, I humbly request that the remaining members of the Directorate, as provided in the Charter, vote to rule Doctor Ernst Zimmer, in light of his absence for the last fifteen years, to be expelled from his position as Director of the Robotics Division, and for the Directorate to then adjourn until the Robotics Division can select a new Director. Once that has been accomplished, it will be my sincere pleasure to deliver the results of the audit that I have undertaken.

Thank you.

* * *

Hey Justin.

How are you feeling, there buddy?

Doc Volkert says you have a minor concussion. Your first one is always the worst. Every single one does damage to your brain, but the next time you get one, your intellect will probably recognize what has happened, and even though you will be functionally impaired, the panic shouldn't be quite so bad.

You hit your head pretty hard when I knocked you on your ass.

You dress up all intimidating in your black SRB uniform, and fancy yourself a powerful, dangerous man, but you've always let your synths fight for you. That was really short-sighted.

Your plan would probably have worked If Shaun hadn't brought in an even more devious bastard to advise him.

You gave your puppet too much autonomy, Justin. He thought he was actually in charge around here.

You should have killed me as soon as I stepped off of the teleporter pad.

Once Shaun let me use his access to the Institute's files, I immediately looked for your override codes for the Coursers. And then I changed them. Of course … heh… I knew they existed! They had to. You're stupid, Justin, but not so stupid as to build murder robots without an off switch. Especially after the prototype developed a will of its own and ran away. Zimmer should have been shitcanned right then, and your whole program shut down on the spot.

I'll admit that you had a real talent for accumulating power. Choosing synths that were already showing early signs of independence to be sent on missions in the Commonwealth was a great trick. The more of them that ran, the more the SRB was needed. And the more of the Institute's resources needed to be tasked to support your work. From my interrogation of Kellogg, I was pretty sure you had control of at least half of the ongoing projects, but eighty percent? Well played.

I don't understand what your ultimate goal was, though. You had quietly gained effective control of the Institute, but what did you want to do with it? Or had you even thought that far? Was being the real boss all you were shooting for? Power for power's sake?

Jesus. Devious, but dumb. You would have thrived in the Pre-War army. If you survived field command, and didn't get killed by your own men, you would have probably gotten three or four stars. That's a pretty big if, though. Considering how thoroughly you alienated everybody in this place, I'm pretty sure you'd have gotten fragged. You were really good at making people afraid of you, Justin, but you seem to be incapable of creating loyalty.

People who _want_ to work for you will always be more effective than people who _have_ to work for you, dumbass.

Your understanding of bureaucracy was strong, but your understanding of people was very limited. And in a setup like the Institute, being able to turn the bureaucracy and the institutional inertia to your advantage was very effective. But you should have killed me when you had your chance. Because I survived and thrived in both academia and the military, and I had seen hundreds of efficient little weasels like you before.

You had a strong position, and you had a plan, but you couldn't improvise when things started to deviate, and you were afraid to show your hand and afraid to get them dirty.

And you concentrated too much power in those clean hands. Because you ARE the SRB, then once you are gone, there is no SRB.

Oh. You're gone.

You see, Doc Volkert was wrong about your concussion. It's much worse than he thought. It's so bad, that when you stand up from that chair in about a minute you're gonna fall down again.

And this time you won't be getting up.

I do want to thank you first.

You did a great job of training people around here to be pushed around.

And I can be pushy as hell.

* * *

Mr. Binet, please sit down.

Relax, Liam. Do you mind if I call you Liam? Thank you.

I promise you this is not an interrogation. It's not even an interview.

I've asked you here so I can offer you a new job.

The dissolution of the Synth Reclamation Bureau, and the suspension of Synth manufacture are just the first steps in a series of re-evaluations of policy and procedures that the Director has… instituted.

By now, I'm sure you have heard of my view on Synth Autonomy.

While I have so far failed in my attempts to convince the Director that they are, in fact, true sentient beings possessed with free will and deserving of the freedom to choose their own paths in life, he has conceded that there is at least a possibility that he could be in error, and has agreed to form a Commission of Inquiry into the matter.

After reviewing the personnel records of everyone in the Institute, I have decided that you are especially well-suited to head up this Commission.

You're right, you are very junior in the Robotics Division. In this case that is a point in your favor. The older scientists, having been so intimately involved in the development of the Synth program, are, like the Director, so focused on the Synths being manufactured objects, that I believe they are incapable of viewing the issue objectively.

You, on the other hand, have never lived in a world without Synths. In fact, thanks to your father's… experiment… you grew up with one in your home. Before your cognition had developed to a point at which you could grasp the concept that Eve was not a traditional human being, you already had a relationship with her as a person.

If you agree to undertake this project, I wish you to understand that it will be YOUR project. I in no way will attempt to railroad you into arriving at any particular decision. This will be a serious challenge, and you will meet a great deal of resistance from the old guard, nevertheless, I believe you have the fortitude to act as a true patriot, and see this commission through to a strong, definitive conclusion.

So.

Can I count on you?

Excellent.

* * *

Good afternoon, Eve.

Yes, I know that Doctor Binet and Liam are not in. I am here to see you.

I have a present for you.

No. Don't open it yet.

It's an envelope. Back in my world, it was an enclosure for the protection and transport of written information.

Inside the envelope is a sequence of letters and numbers.

It is your recall code.

It is the only extant copy of that code. It has been deleted from the system, along with that of all the other synths, in and out of the Institute.

If you read that code, you will be reset to the cognitive state you possessed upon activation. All memories of your time as Eve will cease to exist. As far as you would be concerned, the last twenty years would not have occurred. You would have no memory of Doctor Binet's… project. You would also lose all memory of your relationship with his son. I wish I could offer you the option to pick and choose which memories you retain, but that is beyond my ability.

If you read that code, you will cease to be Eve. You will then have the freedom to become whoever you become, for good or ill.

I cannot guarantee the results of Liam's commission. Nor can I guarantee that the Directorate will accept its findings. But I can at least guarantee this: who you are, from this day forward, will be your choice.

The first choice I need to ask you to make, is to wait at least two days before doing whatever you decide to do with that envelope.

I still have many more to deliver.

* * *

So, Doctor Li… oh thank you!

So, Madison, have you had enough time to go through the files to your satisfaction?

Yes, that really is everything. You have total access to the Institute's network.

That is correct, the recall codes are no longer in the system. Neither are the activation codes for the sleeper agents. Even if everything else I have attempted here unravels, I have at least accomplished that. This holotape contains the new overrides and recall codes for the Coursers. If you choose to reactivate them, use them with care.

Do your conclusions on Shaun's condition match those of Doctor Volkert?

So then you realize that a change of leadership will be occurring fairly soon. Even before Liam Binet's commission is able to present its findings.

Yes. I do believe you should be the next Director.

You are an outsider, yet through your talent, your drive, and your staggering level of competence, you have not just been accepted by the Institute, you were chosen as director of the Advanced Systems Division by the most intelligent and cantankerous collection of individuals this place has to offer.

It is my opinion that, as the only member of the Directorate to have lived in the real world, you are the only one of them who can integrate the Institute and its wonders into that world.

I've read your reports on the Project Purity debacle. I've read your memos and your private journal entries. I know you are as close to a genuine altruist as I have ever met. And I know you have true perspective on the potential of the Institute, both for good and for evil.

Shaun has convinced himself that I should be his replacement.

Exactly! Madness. He's pretty far gone.

I can never earn the loyalty of enough of the senior people here to be effective.

I could purge them, of course, but that would cause lasting damage from which the Institute would never recover.

You've already proven that you can lead them.

And I believe you can convince most of them to support you, even without resorting to the use of the information in Ayo's files.

Yes, it's a lot to consider, but unless I completely misread you, you've been considering it from the moment I gave you the master password.

So. Madame Director-Elect, I need you to tell me everything you can about the Brotherhood of Steel. And especially about Liberty Prime.

* * *

ARTHUR!

WAKE UP, ARTHUR!

WE NEED TO TALK!

PUT YOUR PANTS ON, AND YOUR FANCY COAT, THEN GO UP TO THE OBSERVATION DECK!

I'LL CLIMB THE CONTROL TOWER SO WE CAN TALK FACE TO FACE, AND I CAN TURN DOWN THE VOLUME!

* * *

OK. That was fun.

Thank you for talking me into that, Madison. Just triggering the self-destruct codes would have been effective, but it would have killed a lot of people. This was better. I'm getting really tired of killing people.

The memory of Maxson's expression when he saw his toy standing on top of the control tower - juggling three suits of power armor no less - is something I will take to my grave. Be sure to pass on my compliments to the Robotics Division, that was some brilliant programming.

Your team's instincts for this kind of show are so much better than mine. I would have just thrown one of the suits into the observation deck and splattered him all over the bulkhead. But you were right, killing him would have just made them mad. Humiliation was the right tactic.

I'm glad you let me do the talking, at least… that is my strong suit. I'm pretty sure he knew it was me, but I bet a lot of the rank and file completely bought the whole "ghost of Elder Lyons" business.

And I would have certainly at least smashed up a few vertibirds, but just turning its back on the Prydwen and walking south into the harbor is something they would be talking about for generations, even without finishing with that pose on Spectacle Island.

I suppose a dress would be overkill, but can we please give it a book and a torch?

* * *

Rest easy son, things are going well.

The wars are over for now.

The Brotherhood has returned to DC.

The Gunners have been crushed. Maxson didn't waste all of his time looking for you. He kept his people busy, and they actually did some good.

All the major raider camps and super mutant tribes north of the Mass Pike have been cleared. It is possible now to walk from Goodneighbor to Diamond City at night without hearing a single gunshot.

There is still a lot of work to be done, but now your people and mine will be doing it together. It will take quite some time to establish trust, of course. Kellogg's show trial will help, as will the leadership change.

Director Li is doing an amazing job. She has plans to convert the SRB quadrant into classroom facilities. Northbridge, Vault 81 and Diamond City will all have the opportunity to send their best students here for advanced studies.

Under her guidance, and with access to the resources that Ayo had been monopolizing, the Divisions are pursuing dozens of new projects.

Now that he understands what the world actually needs, Doctor Holdren is applying what he learned from his gorillas toward making synth horses. He also thinks pigs will be possible. Doctor Karlin's crop research should progress much more quickly now that it can be conducted openly. And Doctor Virgil has returned. He is determined to develop a vaccine against the Forced Evolution Virus, and has the Director's full support.

The Robotics Division is well along in adapting the Sentrybot suspension into an all-terrain vehicle. They will be expensive to manufacture, but rebuilding the roads enough to make wheeled transport practical will take decades. And the robot vacuums are already in service.

Advanced Systems is undergoing a major shakeup. I was surprised that they chose Doctor Watson to replace Doctor Li. I have no idea what they're gonna end up doing in there, but it certainly should be safe.

Facilities has the reactor upgrade up and running. Perhaps Watson's leadership of that project is what impressed his colleagues so much. The Division is now investigating different routes to re-establish access to the surface. Less reliance on the teleporter should help keep the reactor in much better shape in the future. They are also looking into reworking the lighting systems in order to create a proper day/night cycle.

Director Li invited me to put together a Humanities program. As tempted as I am to accept her offer, I have unfinished business in the outside world. Maybe in a few years I'll reconsider.

I will definitely miss reliable hot and cold running water.

Of course I have plans for that.

It's a shame you missed Liam Binet's presentation. He really rose to the challenge. I expect he will be the next Director when Madison is ready to step down.

The Synths have been emancipated. Not a single one chose to use their recall code. Not even Eve.

Over half have decided to remain in the Institute. As employees, not slaves. I suspect several will be enrolling in classes as well.

Your children have grown up Shaun.

Your work here is done.


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue: ****Cool Your Jets**

I'd ask you both to sit, but that's ridiculous.

I'm going to though. Days like this are really hard on my hip.

I learned something today.

Something I should have been able to recognize myself. A long time ago.

Natalie has been spending a lot of time in the Institute the last few years. She's writing a history of the Synth program, and most of the research material is there. And I'm pretty sure she's seeing Doctor Binet. Liam, that is. Good kid, Piper approves. Jesus, listen to me, he's not a kid, he's over forty now.

Last week, she came across some holotapes from the very early days of the program. They had been misfiled, but she found references to them, and kept digging until she found them.

It turns out that the basic software matrix for the original Synths wasn't written in the Institute.

The roboticists cannibalized existing code.

From General Robotics.

From the Mister Handy platform.

When she showed Liam what she found, he started crunching numbers, and cross-referencing data, or some other sort of scientist stuff.

He found the kernel of the self-awareness algorithm… whatever the hell that is… in the original software.

In your software.

He concluded that two hundred years would have been more than sufficient for you to develop your own programming subroutines, your own ideas. Your own free will.

I owe you both bigger apologies than I can even comprehend.

Especially you, Codsworth. I treated you like shit from the day I was thawed out.

And Curie, I treated your desire to be human as a complete joke.

Here's the thing Curie, you don't need to be human. You're already a person, and you've already accomplished more than most humans will ever accomplish.

I can't begin to sufficiently compensate either of you for having treated you as property for all these years.

But I can sponsor you both for full citizenship.

Codsworth, you may not breathe, but you're at least as alive as I am.


	6. Sidebar: Hi Ho

Overall, I'd call the mission a success.

Casualties were higher than I'd hoped. Yes. I know, even a single casualty is too many. I've written to all of their families, but, with your permission, I'd like to deliver them personally.

We have to find out where the bastards are getting all of those Assaultrons. Without them, I think we could have managed a lossless walkover. Isabel's little project took out the one our recon team had spotted, but they had two more tucked away out of sight. All the heads were salvaged, so we should at least get two or three more Izzys out of the deal.

There was only one Sentry Bot, and the incendiary launchers kept it tied down until we could deploy the pulse lances. I think the first one was all we needed, but we used three, just to be sure. Overkill beats underkill, just like you taught me.

I was disappointed with the mortars. Our teams need a lot more live fire practice with them. I wouldn't recommend full deployment until we get the production problems worked out on the rounds. They made a lot of noise, and kept a lot of heads down, but more bang than buck.

Both of the sniper teams were excellent. Hendricks in particular, she's better than I ever was. Zero leadership potential, and she's gonna continue to be a discipline problem when she's not in the field, but goddamn can she shoot.

Once the last Assaultron went down, they tried to retreat, but I sent the mounted reserve in and mopped them up. The bugles scared the crap out of them even before the sabers started their work. We accounted for every single one of the bastards. Yes sir, I am certain. The company paybook was recovered, and we matched them all up. The blood type tattoos helped, as did the more cooperative prisoners. Twenty-four, including two sergeants.

We didn't get much useful intel out of them, but I think some time in the Memory Scroungers might shake a few things loose.

Fall River is in our hands, as is the bridge to Portsmouth. Initial reconnaissance shows little sign of occupation of the island, so I anticipate securing Newport by the end of the month. After that, all I'll need is enough boats to get us over to Narragansett, and we'll be in position to take Providence from below. Give us a big, noisy anvil north of them, and we will hammer the shit out of them for you. Fast and hard.

We need some fine-tuning on tactics and supply, but overall, I think the organization is solid. Holdren's synth horses are everything we hoped and more.

Major, the First Commonwealth Cavalry Division is at your service.

_Note: I couldn't explain the Izzys without "As You Know"ing._  
_They are stealthed Eyebots with a one-shot overcharged Assaultron head laser._  
_Furthermore, the First Commonwealth Cavalry is more accurately described as mounted infantry, but cavalry has the mystique, so..._


	7. Mobile Resource Equestrian Development

**Mobile Resource Equestrian Development**  
**Project Logs**

_Participants:_

CHOL: Dr. Clayton Holdren, Director of Biosciences, Project Lead  
MADLI: Dr. Madison Li, Director  
EWATS: Dr. Evan Watson, Director of Advanced Systems  
ALBIN: Dr. Alan Binet, Director of Robotics

LIBIN: Liam Binet, Synth Relations Manager  
MAJOR: Major Jonas Coolwater, Project Sponsor  
GLASS: Arlen Glass, Toymaker, Project Consultant  
DBLAK: Dierdre Blake, Equestrian, Project Consultant

_January 17, 2291_

CHOL: Any progress on recovery of genetic samples?

MAJOR: Negative. Suggestions on alternative approaches?

CHOL: There are no alternate approaches. Without horse DNA, I cannot make horses.

MAJOR: They don't have to be actual horses, just something that can fill the role of horses.

MADLI: Can you clarify what that role would be?

MAJOR: Quadrupedal All-Terrain Transport, both personal and draft. Biofueled via grazing and fodder. Capable of sustained operation without significant maintenance. Intelligent enough to function autonomously, yet capable of accepting non-verbal directions from rider. Rugged. Strong. Fast. Self-repairing from minor damage.

MADLI: That's a tall order.

MAJOR: Cost-effective. It is essential that they be cost-effective.

MADLI: A very tall order.

MAJOR: You made HUMAN BEINGS!

CHOL: We had viable genetic material.

MAJOR: And you're sure there was none in Cram? Everyone always believed it was horsemeat.

CHOL: Negative. Canine, feline, various rodents, at least one type of marsupial, and enough porcine that your other pet project is progressing in a far more promising manner.

MAJOR: We NEED horses. The roads will take years to rebuild enough to make wheeled transport practical.

MADLI: I would like to bring in Advanced Systems and Robotics on the project.

CHOL: I object. This project is Biosciences' purview.

MADLI: Purview or not, this project is stalled. You will share your data with the other divisions and consult with them, or I will find someone else to lead it.

MADLI: Is that clear?

CHOL: Yes Director. I will prepare the data for distribution.

MADLI: Do not merely transfer data. TALK TO THEM. Cooperate. Exchange ideas.

CHOL: Yes Director.

_May 3, 2291_

MAJOR: I have a couple of outsiders I wish to bring into the project.

CHOL: Why? We have too many cooks already.

ALBIN: We have managed to cook up a working equiform skeleton for you.

EWATS: And some very promising preliminary work on a power system. It needs a great deal more careful testing, but I think we're on the right track.

MAJOR: But have you built a horse yet?

CHOL: Clearly not.

MAJOR: I have found somebody who has done so. Thousands of them, in fact.

CHOL: Nonsense. If that were the case, then why have you been wasting our time on this?

MAJOR: Because Giddyup Buttercup was a child's toy. I need the adult version.

MADLI: Please stop being so dramatic, Jonas. Get to the point.

MAJOR: Arlen Glass, the inventor of Giddyup Buttercup, is still alive. He's a ghoul. He lives at The Slog. He has invaluable knowledge. And we should have even more after I send salvaging teams to the offices and manufacturing facilities of Wilson Automatoys.

EWATS: A ghoul? You expect us to allow a ghoul into the Institute?

MAJOR: Two ghouls. At the very minimum. Dierdre Blake, another citizen of The Slog, was an accomplished equestrienne before the war. She knows more about horses than all of us put together.

EWATS: This is completely unacceptable. We have managed to keep this facility radiation-free for over two hundred years. And you want to bring in ghouls? Far too many projects could be contaminated.

CHOL: They could go feral and kill us all.

MAJOR: The Institute bred Super Mutants. In this facility. Get over yourselves. They're in.

MADLI: I agree. It is past time we began utilizing the prewar knowledge available to us. Bring them in, Jonas. I cannot guarantee their presence won't cause an uproar, but I can promise you that any member of the Institute who shows them anything but the utmost civility and hospitality, will be brought up for review by the Disciplinary Committee and, if necessary, expelled from the facility. I'm sure Higgs and Loken would appreciate some company in exile.

_August 11, 2291_

MAJOR: Quite an improvement. This is the first prototype that hasn't left me in desperate need of painkillers after a few laps around the atrium.

DBLAK: We modified the gait based on the Paso Fino. I'm not confident the comfort level will be as high once we're able to reach a gallop, but it's very smooth at lower speeds.

GLASS: The structure is quite sound at this point, we're really just fine-tuning now.

MAJOR: It's still really stupid, though.

CHOL: Brains are rather tricky, Major Coolwater.

ALBIN: A perfectly functional brain matrix is available.

LIBIN: Absolutely not. If you put a synth brain in these things, then you have created a new batch of slaves. We cannot allow that to happen.

EWATS: Why not use a robotic processing unit?

MAJOR: No robots. As we taught Arthur Maxson, robots can be reprogrammed. And if you made them robots, then sure as hell, you'd end up making them talk. Nobody needs a talking horse. Bad, bad idea.

MADLI: Is there another brain we could model from? A brahmin, perhaps?

CHOL: Not unless you want to build two-headed horses. And they really wouldn't be much smarter than what we have now.

GLASS: What about dogs?

DBLAK: Dogs are predators. Horses are herd animals. Very different behavior.

GLASS: Dogs are smart, trainable, loyal and adaptable. Seems like bonding with humans will be a more important trait than herd instincts. Especially since they'll have no offspring to protect.

CHOL: They're quadrupeds. That will make controlling the equiform easier.

MAJOR: Some predatory instincts might be just what we need. Would you need to dissect, or could you get what you need without harming the dog?

CHOL: Dissection would certainly be preferable.

MADLI: But not essential.

CHOL: But not essential. Yes. It will take longer, but the animal would not need to be harmed.

MAJOR: In that case, I know just the dog.

_December 9, 2291_

MAJOR: This is it. This is what I need. How soon can you go into production?

CHOL: We have several more improvements scheduled, perhaps by summer?

MAJOR: I don't need more improvements. I need this horse. I need hundreds of this horse.

CHOL: Unacceptable. There is much more work to be done.

MADLI: Clayton. You can continue to improve upon the design and implement the changes in subsequent production runs. You have worked miracles. I need you to take your day of rest.

CHOL: Very well. Thank you.

MAJOR: Thank you both. This is going to make so many things possible. You have taken a major step toward redeeming the Institute's reputation.

MRED-23: Run more? Run now?

MAJOR: GODDAMMIT HOLDREN!


	8. Dispatches--Part 1

_March 3, 2291_

NV: Can you hear me OK? This transmitter looks like something I woke up next to in that trash heap.

JC: Loud and Clear, Nick. Good to hear your voice.

NV: Isn't that the first thing you say to yourself every morning?

JC: Yep. Right after "Oh. Fuck. Ow."

NV: Can you get a message to the Nakanos for me? It looks like I'm gonna be up here for a while.

JC: Sorry to hear that. Of course I can. Shoot.

NV: The girl is safe, and understands she's not a synth. Thank Liam for his help on that. She plans to stay up here though. She'll send a letter back with a friend who's coming that way.

JC: Can't say I blame her. Who's the friend?

NV: Local dame. She's good people. Thinks she's got something fatal, I convinced her she needed a second opinion from Curie.

JC: You're not stepping out on Ellie are you? She was sweet on you even before we got your face fixed. Hell, I could barely look at you back then.

NV: Wiseass.

JC: Me? Slander!

NV: I need one more thing. Did your people ever make any sense out of what they found on the robobrain project?

JC: Jesus. What a nightmare. Madison put someone on her shit list on it. Why?

NV: Personal project. I'd appreciate a copy of the report. You can send it back with the Mariner.

JC: Roger that. The Mariner? That's your sick friend? She's not another wannabe comic book hero is she?

NV: Nope just a crusty Down Easter.

JC: Anything else?

NV: The rest can wait until I get back. Will I still recognize Boston by then?

JC: Parts of it. Probably. If you don't dawdle.

NV: Just leave my office alone, anyway. The rent's paid until September.

JC: You got it, tin man. Try not to rust up there.

NV: You know, I think I prefer talking to you by radio.

JC: Why's that?

NV: Because I can get in the last word.

*end transmission*

#####

_Received July 11, 2291 via caravan. Estimated original date mid February to early March._

Homecoming chaotic. Methuselah behavior erratic. Many turning to PI for direction.

Confirm Z still in custody. Poor health. Mentally unstable.

No word here from Astaire. Hope he turns up soon.

Will update when possible.

Straw Boss.

#####

_August 3, 2291 Decrypted Transmission_

Finally in place. Sturgemobile broke down for good 20 miles short of target.

Contact made with infiltrator. Reports accurate. Monorail functional all the way in. Terminal some sort of death gauntlet. Park infested with very large number raiders. Multiple gangs. Recommend increasing strength strike force as much as practical. Send combat engineers if ready.

Civilians concentrated near park entrance. Will secure when dance begins.

_#####_

_August 8, 2291 Decrypted Transmission_

Target secured. Civilians safe.

Glory's team made big loud entrance. Gangs overwhelmed. Survivors scattered into surroundings, other parks. Estimate 2-4 weeks mopping up before safe for salvage teams.

What is favorite flavor Nuka? Will bring case.

#####

_September 4, 2291_

Jonas,

You were right, retirement was boring.

I miss it already.

But you were also right that slavery is just as wrong whether a person was born or manufactured.

I was surprised how many of the folks here wanted to stay now that the gangs are gone. Something about these wide open spaces gets in your bones, I guess. After so many years hiding in one hole or another, it's gonna take me a while to get used to all this sky. It almost makes me feel sympathy for the folks who got exiled from the Institute. Almost.

There's a lot of work ahead getting this place organized. As we discussed before I came out here, if you want me to do it, you have to really let me be in charge. You can make all the suggestions you want, but If you're gonna trust me to do this, you have to trust me to do this my way.

Tom has made some new friends out here who make him look like the most rational human being on earth. They're trying to get him to build them a spaceship or something.

Stanley seems happy in his own special way, with lots of new people to be condescending to. But he's doing a lot of good. Those bastards really neglected the health of their slaves, and demeanor notwithstanding, he really is a good doctor.

Glory swears she is going to take up farming. I give her six months tops before she's on your doorstep, looking for new bad guys for you to point her at.

Deacon has already slipped away. I don't even want to know where you've sent him now. I wish I could say I'll miss him, but his bullshitting just wears me out. The cute wore off a long time ago.

Thanks again for this opportunity. It's good to have purpose again.

Come visit us sometime, the monorail ride is amazing. Feel free not to bring Piper, though.

Regards,

Desdemona


	9. Old Business, New Business

**Commonwealth Ad Hoc Steering Committee**  
**Inaugural Meeting**

_January 23, 2292_

Major Jonas Coolwater (JC): Governor of Northbridge, Presiding  
Gwendolyn McNamara (GM):Supervisor, Vault 81

Elizabeth Kessler (EK): Mayor, Bunker Hill  
John Hancock (JH): Mayor, Goodneighbor  
David Wiseman (DW): Chairman, Commonwealth Agricultural Alliance  
Daniel Sullivan (DS): Mayor, Diamond City  
Madison Li (ML): Director, Commonwealth Institute of Technology

Desdemona "Jones" (DJ): Governor, Nuka World  
Veronica Shaw (VS): Commander, Commonwealth Minutemen  
Amelia Stockton (AS): Merchant, Bunker Hill  
Daisy Palmer (DP): Merchant, Goodneighbor  
Constance Abernathy (CA): Merchant, Northbridge  
Zachary Freeman (ZF): Carpenter, Northbridge

Natalie Wright (NW): Special Assistant to Major Coolwater, Recording Secretary

* * *

JC: Ladies, Gentlemen…

DP: Ghouls!

ZF: Synths!

JC: La-dies, Gen-tlemen, welcome, happy new year, and thank you all for coming.

ML: Did we have a choice?

JC: You did, but I understand why you would ask. Which is the reason we need to do this.

GM: And what exactly IS this? Are we here to crown you King of the Commonwealth?

JH: Sic semper tyrannis!

JC: Oh Christ, no. Definitely not.

DW: What then, President?

DP: Generalissimo?

ML: Lord High Muckamuck?

JC: None of the above. Has is not occurred to any of you that I might be tired? Tired of being The Man With The Plan? Tired of running around fighting all the fires? Tired of being the biggest goddamn bully in the Commonwealth?

DJ: You love being the biggest goddamn bully in the Commonwealth.

AS: No. He doesn't.

JC: I did. For quite a while. Before I went into the Vault, I was an angry, angry man, with no real focus for that anger. Then I found myself in a world where I could use that anger for a purpose. And god damn did I use it. But that anger wasn't caused by this world, it was caused by the old one. Daisy, David, you remember what it was like. We all knew what was coming. The world was gonna go to hell. We distracted ourselves with fizzy drinks and shiny cars and little blue houses and whimsical robots and rosy-cheeked babies and tried so fucking hard to pretend it wasn't all gonna go to shit any minute. But we knew it would. And we were right. The world went to hell. The world died. But something came back when the old world died. Hope. We had no real hope back then, just desperate pretense. We had given up. We were just going through the motions. I came out of that ridiculous, pointless, sadistic deathtrap of a vault, which was just a microcosm of the ridiculous, pointless, sadistic deathtrap of a society that had created it, and I met people who were actually trying to survive. Trying to build something. Trying to improve their world instead of just racing to use up everything that was left before somebody else used it. Connie, when I met you, the dirt from your daughter's grave was still ground into the knees of your coveralls, but there you were, pulling weeds and planting melons. Everything I've done since that day was to make sure you didn't have to bury another daughter and that anyone who wanted your melons would have to haggle for them.

CA: Um. Thank you. I…

JC: The point I'm trying to make is I'm not angry anymore.

ML: You were pretty angry at Doctor Holdren last month.

JC: That wasn't angry. I was just pissed off. He's still in one piece, isn't he? Hell, Madison, you've never actually seen me angry. My anger was already spent before I went into the Institute.

VS: Is there a point to this, or are you just gonna talk about yourself all day?

JC: Thank you, Ronnie, yes. Yes there is. It's time to start figuring out how things are gonna work around here now that the parasites and predators have been dealt with.

EK: Figure out? You mean you don't already have a grand plan for all of us?

JC: This IS my grand plan. Get the most respected and sensible people in one place and let them talk to each other. As of today, I'm through telling everybody what to do around here.

JH: What the fuck, brother? Are you dying?

JC: Not dying, retiring. I've got a horse now, I can ride off into the sunset.

DP: You realize that only two of us understood that reference, right?

JC: Two more than usual. At this point, I would like to yield the chair to Supervisor McNamara. Gwen?

GM: OK. Well. Um. I suppose the first order of business is to determine if we should proceed. Show of hands? Miss Wright, please record that the vote to continue was unanimous.

NW: Yes ma'am.

GM: Do we wish to form some sort of unified Commonwealth government? Miss Wright, please count and record this and all subsequent votes.

MW: Yes ma'am. Three in favor.

GM: Right. With that out of the way, let's see what we DO want. Wait. Let's not talk all over each other. There are a lot of strong personalities in this room. I will recognize each of you who wish to speak, and ask that the rest of you allow them to do so without interruption. Mayor Kessler?

EK: We need to come up with a way to keep the raiders and mutants from coming back.

GM: Mayor Sullivan?

DS: I'd like to see us establish areas of responsibility. Diamond City Security has always tried to maintain a safe zone beyond the Wall. Some of the other communities have allowed bad guys to nest right outside their doors. That has to improve.

GM: Mayor Hancock?

JH: We have to make sure that individuals are free to live their lives the way they want to, as long as they don't hurt anyone else in the process.

GM: Chairman Wiseman?

DW: Food production is increasing steadily, but people in Diamond City, Goodneighbor and Bunker Hill are still paying as much as they were when things were bad.

VS: So are the Minutemen!

GM: Commander Shaw, you will have your turn to speak. Please continue, Chairman.

DW: We are happy to be producing enough food for everyone in the Commonwealth, But the caravans are still charging as if the roads were lined with bandits and monsters. Same with goods they bring us. Shouldn't peace bring prosperity for all, not just the traders?

GM: Miss Stockton, would you like to respond?

AS: I'm so sorry. I'm still trying to figure out so much of the finer points of the business. All I've really been able to do since my father died is to keep the caravans running on schedule. Please let me know what I need to do to fix this.

[Many people begin talking at once]

GM: Please. PLEASE! I think we need to get a sense of all the issues we need to deal with before we start attempting to find solutions to any of them. Director LI?

ML: At this point, I believe The Institute has not earned a right to make any demands of the Commonwealth at large. I believe it is best if we are considered no more than probationary members of whatever body you establish.

GM: Governor Jo…

DJ: Desdemona.

GM: Very well. Desdemona?

DJ: I'm not sure how long-term of an issue this will be, but we probably need to establish a different form of currency than caps. The bottling plant at Nuka World not only contained several hundred thousand bottlecaps, but the equipment to manufacture more. Jonas has explained to me that this doesn't make the Nuka World colony fabulously wealthy, but it does have the potential to completely wreck the economy. Fortunately, my people are very good at keeping secrets, so we should be able to sit on this until a solution has been found.

GM: Commander Shaw?

VS: Hell if I know. The Minutemen aren't much more than a handful of old-timers and youngsters. Thanks to Northbridge, we have The Castle, a powerful radio transmitter, and some artillery. We aren't a proper militia, just a name, a flag, and a lot more hats than heads to wear 'em. We stand ready to help however you folks want, but I'll be damned if I know what that could be.

GM: Miss Stockton, did you have any of your own concerns you wanted to bring up?

AS: Yes, actually. The fall caravan from points south never arrived. One of the last things my father did before he died was to send a team to see if they could find any sign of what happened. The survivors of that team just returned two days ago, and they said that the Gunners have taken over Providence, and closed the road south.

[Many people talk at once]

GM: QUIET! Thank you. Mrs. Palmer?

DP: We need a library. Not the old one, it's in too bad of shape, but we need to organize the books that have survived, and make the knowledge in them available to as many people as possible. And we need to try to salvage as many more books as we can, and find ways to preserve them better.

GM: Mrs. Abernathy?

CA: Well, I think you're all being foolish not wanting some sort of government. Up home, we've proved how much a group of people can accomplish when they have somebody in charge and a clear set of plans and rules to follow. I guess you're all afraid of being bossed around by somebody who's just gonna make himself rich and fat off of your hard work. It doesn't have to be that way if you set things up well. Jonas made sure we could get rid of him at any time, and choose a new leader. He tried to get us to do that just last month. He resigned, but we all voted him back in. All of you know how important good leadership can be. Most of you ARE good leaders. I think you need to think farther than "nobody gets to be the boss of me." I think that if you don't come up with some way of organizing things, then my grandchildren are gonna end up right back in the mess we were in just a few years ago.

GM: Mr. Freeman?

ZF: As far as I can tell, the only reason I'm here is so there can be a synth in the room.

AS: There are two.

ZF: I'm sorry, Amelia. I forgot. I can tell you this much, though. I will never be a slave again. If whatever system you set up here becomes corrupt or unjust, I will fight to the death against it. And I won't be alone.

[Many people talk at once]

GM: PEOPLE! Please. Thank you. If that's all, then I propose… Yes, Major Coolwater?

JC: I think we're all getting a bit ahead of ourselves. Yes. the Brotherhood has left town. Yes. the Institute is no longer a threat to the good people of the Commonwealth. Yes the Gunners have been chased off. Yes, Boston proper and a nice chunk of real estate north of the city have been cleared of raiders, mutants, ferals, and all manner of annoying beasties. Yes, the synths have been freed. Yes, nobody around here needs to go to bed hungry anymore. But we sure as hell aren't safe yet. Our prosperity will attract more parasites. And if we don't figure out a way to not just work together, but to know we can depend on each other, the bad guys and the monsters will creep right back in and nibble us all to death. I strongly urge you to reconsider your quick dismissal of some sort of Commonwealth government. I urge you to at least discuss the possibility, to at least discuss what it would take to make you put your individual interests aside and build something bigger that has a chance of lasting. But before all that, I urge you to break for lunch. I would like to introduce you all to the wonder that is pork chops.

GM: All in favor of lunch?

NW: Thirteen in favor.

GM: Well then, lunch it is.


	10. What the Hell, Blue?

What the hell, Blue?

Seriously, what the hell? What happened to "Nooo, Piper, I'm retiring? Nooo, Piper, you and Northbridge are plenty to keep me busy? Nooo, Piper, I'm ready to collect my Peace Dividend?"

Well, don't expect to be getting another piece of THIS dividend anytime soon, mister.

And Custodian? Like janitor? I know how much you like alliteration, but Custodian of the Commonwealth doesn't really sing. Let me guess, it's subtle wordplay in Latvian or one of those other twice-dead languages.

Well why didn't you just say "Keeper" then? Hah! You're not the only one who can play that game. Or what about "Constable?" You know "stable" like your horses? And of course the way you conned everybody into putting you in charge. Jerk.

You can't expect me to just keep waiting around while you run off to slay the latest dragon. One of these times when you come climbing out of a hole in the ground, looking all smug and triumphant, I won't be there to greet you.

I have other admirers, you know. Zeke says I'm "everything plus" and I "really know my groceries." I have no idea what that one means, but it's apparently pretty impressive. Danny Sullivan has been in love with me for years. And Preston can't even look me in the eyes.

Of course they're all afraid of you and consider me your property.

But I was pretty pushy before I met you, and I've been studying at the feet of the High Priest of Pushiness for years now, so I could snatch any one of them up just like that. Yes, I did mean that pun. Writer, remember?

I want those babies you've been teasing me about all this time. And I want them to be yours.

But only if you're gonna be around.

Last time you weren't around for your kid, he turned out to be a real shit, remember?

What? Married? Of course I want to get married. But I don't want to be a widow, Blue.

I know it's ridiculous of me to believe you when you say you're ready to stop getting smack in the middle of every problem in the Commonwealth. And I know you've gotten wayyy better at delegating responsibility. But you need to understand that I am freaking terrified every time you leave my sight that your luck is gonna run out.

Oh yeah, right. As if any of those clowns could ever measure up to you. Besides, they've got it wrong, I'm not your property, you're mine.

What the hell, Blue, you've already saved the Commonwealth from everyone else, I guess it's only right you save it from itself.

But I really think "Constable of the Commonwealth" sounds better than "Custodian."


	11. Which Story Do You Want?

Which story do you want, Mrs. Coolwater?

The one I tell the reporter, or the one I tell my wife?

The big news is that we won't have to assault Providence after all. The Gunners can camp out in that irradiated shithole as long as they want.

MacCready met up with some old acquaintances west of Narragansett. An outfit called Reilly's Rangers who have been hired by the folks at the other end of things to open the caravan route. Mac vouches for them, says he tried to join them years ago, but they rejected him as being too low a character. Thank God they did, or I wouldn't have lived long enough to have met you.

How the hell can I still make you blush? Fifteen minutes ago, you were riding me like a Sturgemobile!

No, I ain't complaining.

Right. Right. Reilly's Rangers. They're gonna fortify at Narragansett, and with the boats The Mariner is restoring in Newport, we'll be able to establish a ferry and re-route the caravans south of the chokepoint.

Mac's Rough Riders will patrol between 'Gansett and Providence for the time being, although I'll probably end up selling the Rangers some Mister Eds before long. Not having to mount a complex three-pronged urban assault should free up some resources, don'tcha think?

Once the Rangers are mounted as well, we should be able to cut Providence off from their base in Springfield, then they can either surrender, fight us on our terms, or sit there and soak up the rads. Any of those options is fine by me.

Think that's enough to keep your public-k-k enthralled for now?

Ready to hear the good stuff?

Guess why the Gunners were in Fall River. No you'll never guess. They were trying to restore the _Massachusetts._

It's a battleship. A fucking three hundred and fifty year old battleship. Seven times the length of the _Prydwen_. Nine sixteen inch guns with a range of over twenty miles. Twelve-inch armor plated hull. One of the most powerful pre-nuclear warships ever built.

They're nuts.

It would have never worked.

Even if - and that's a huge fucking if - even if they managed to restore it - which would take YEARS at best - even if they pulled that off, they would need a crew of over two thousand - TWO THOUSAND! - to operate it.

And those monster guns? Sixteen inch bore? Twenty mile range? Every shell it fired weighed over a ton. PLUS six one hundred and ten pound silk bags of the finest smokeless gunpowder.

Every shot.

That's enough gunpowder for over half a million 10mm rounds.

Each of those guns was capable of firing two rounds per minute.

Nine guns.

Do the math.

Ten million rounds of 10mm a minute.

Nearly six tons of THE BEST gunpowder every sixty seconds.

It took the full industrial might of the United States at its zenith to keep that beast supplied.

And the Gunners thought they could restore it.

Idiots.

All the Gunners could see was what may be the biggest guns left in the world, and say "I'ma HAVE that!"

I, on the other hand, saw the sweet little corvette resting in the shadow of the _Massachusetts_.

Fifty-six feet of sleek, deadly steel. Crew of sixty, max. It'll carry far less firepower than Big Mamie, but it'll carry enough for anything we'll need anytime soon.

And Ronnie's armory can keep her supplied.

She's a rusted out mess right now, but there's more than enough steel on Big Mamie to salvage and use for repairs.

I'ma have THAT!

And that's not the only thing Amari scrounged out of the prisoners.

We now know where their main base is, and where they're getting all the robots and high-end weaponry.

Watervliet Arsenal.

No, vliet, with a v. It's a Dutch name.

It's over Albany way. Used to be in the hands of some rump US government called The Enclave, but when they collapsed a few years back, The Gunners moved in, and went from being a fairly disciplined raider gang to serious players and would-be conquerors.

Apparently, they recruited a bunch of ex-Enclave types, or maybe got quietly taken over by them. That's not clear yet.

Anyway, Watervliet used to be the Army's primary location for the development and manufacture of artillery. Of course, by the end, artillery was deemed too old-fashioned-meaning too unprofitable-and the facility was repurposed for robotics.

That's the Army I knew. Why use proven, reliable weapon systems when you can stick death rays in the faces of robots with boobs? Same geniuses who thought mini-nuke launchers were a great idea.

Sometimes I think Tinker Tom's theory that our leaders were replaced by aliens might be right. But then I read another batch of recovered documents and remember that no, they were just insane, greedy assholes.

Speaking of Tom and aliens, would you believe he thinks he can get that thing that crashed near the brewery to fly again? Wouldn't that be something…

Point is, we know where the bastards are getting their toys now. And that means we have a chance to take them away. Or at least break them.

I've sent for Deacon. I think he's bored enough by now to take on another long-range reconnaissance mission. And then I guess it'll be time for another session with P.A.M. That thing really gives me the creeps, but it's too useful not to consult with it.

So maybe we can finally get rid of the Gunners and start concentrating on building, rather than fighting.

With maybe just a touch of gunboat diplomacy on the side.


	12. Superheroes

Of course it's a crazy-ass plan, Deacon and Isabel cooked it up.

Save a lot of lives if it works.

Gonna have to completely re-arm and reprogram the big guy, though. My stance against the use of nukes, mini OR maxi, is firm, even against the Gunners. Besides, Deacon estimates they have upwards of two thousand slaves at Watervliet.

The scariest part for me is taking any of Binet's team into the field. They'll have to go through a crash course in basic wasteland survival beforehand. Guess I'll put them in Ronnie's loving hands.

And I wish it didn't involve putting Isabel in harm's way. She's… she's still pretty fragile.

Wait.

I never told you that story?

Oh right. I was gonna tell you at the Dugout the night you sprung Nick on me. Put it right out of my mind. By the time we were talking again, there was a lot of other stuff going on.

So a couple of weeks after your first batch of articles, an eyebot showed up at Northbridge, with a message from somebody calling themselves The Mechanist.

Yep. Another wannabe superhero. Poor Kent. I still can't believe Deacon played along with his stupid fantasy.

Yes. I know. Like I said, crazy-ass plan.

So this Mechanist wanted to know how he and the robot army he was building could help me save the Commonwealth. "He" was little Isabel with a voice modulator, but I didn't learn that for a while.

Hell yes, I was skeptical, but I was still pretty freshly-thawed at the time, and was being surprised on a nearly daily basis by the sheer weirdness going on around here.

Anyway, I sent a polite reply back with the eyebot, and asked for more details on what she meant by an army.

Turned out she wasn't exaggerating. Somehow, she had not only found, but taken over a secret RobCo production facility. She really was BUILDING a robot army.

Yeah. You know how I felt about robots back then. The _Constitution_ was enough of a pain in my ass already, I did NOT want hundreds of cobbled-together, over-gunned, semi-autonomous machines clomping around shooting at whatever they determined was a threat.

Good thing, too, because when I let her attack Libertalia as a demonstration, I discovered she was using fucking Robobrains as squad leaders.

I didn't know much about Robobrains, they were supposed to be top secret, but they were such a catastrophically bad idea that stories were out there. Terrifying stories.

Have I mentioned that the people running this country at the end were fucking insane?

The Robobrain project would have been horrible enough already, but these psychopaths made it monumentally worse by using the brains of criminally insane people. Murderers. MASS-murderers seemed to be their preference. Stupid, stupid, stupid motherfuckers.

My observation team and I had to intervene to keep them from slaughtering the folks at Nordhagen. They decided the civilians would be safest from harm by being dead. Jesus.

After that, I insisted on a face-to-face meeting.

That's when I learned that The Mechanist was just a scared kid with an absolute genius for building and programming robots, and no goddamn sense at all about how people worked. Let alone criminally goddamn insane people who had been stuck in robot bodies for over two hundred years.

I don't think they misunderstood her instructions. I think they manipulated her into letting them out of the facility so they could indulge themselves in all the mayhem they'd been missing out on until she showed up. I think they let her take over the facility when she stumbled upon it, and I think they were putting all sorts of dangerous ideas into her head. She wasn't programming them, they were programming her.

Thank God she found your articles and got in touch with me. I hate to imagine how much mayhem there would have been if she had unleashed her army to "save" the Commonwealth.

So I convinced her to keep building her army to be my ace-in-the-hole, and sent Sturges to help her for a while.

Of course that was my plan. Sturges is the most level-headed person I've ever known. Have you ever even heard him raise his voice? He was a really good influence on her even before he figured out how to shut down the Robobrains.

Meanwhile, I did deploy one part of her army.

Did you notice how many more eyebots there were for a while, blaring out the recruitment message for Cambridge Polymer Labs?

Yep. Those were mine. I got a whole lot of intel from them while they wandered around, hiding in plain sight.

So anyway, that's Isabel's story. I've been slowly, gently socializing her for a few years now, steering her genius in useful directions. Her assaultron-killers have been really effective for instance. I like not having to be completely reliant on Madison for all my little projects.

I'm not sure how Deacon found out about her, but you know Deacon, that's what he does. He's been visiting her for a while now, even before he decided to play dress-up and get Kent killed. Important rule: Never Let Deacon Get Bored Again.

So yeah, The Mechanist and the Silver Freaking Shroud have teamed up and come up with a plan to use Liberty Prime and Mac's Rough Riders as a distraction while they sneak into the Gunners' stronghold, reprogram the robots to turn on their masters, and free a couple thousand slaves in the process.

Think I could get Strong to wear a Grognak wig?

Then they'd be Unstoppable.


	13. The Price of Freedom

Scared?

No I wasn't scared.

I was fucking terrified.

I think I'd rather get shot in the other hip than go through another six weeks like that.

Oh. I'm quite aware of my hypocrisy.

Sure, she promised she'd stay out of the way.

But my girl has never run away from a story or a fight.

And I knew she wouldn't this time, either.

Deciding to dress up as the Mistress of Mystery? THAT I did not see coming.

My fault I guess. After all, I made a crack about dressing Strong up as Grognak.

Thank God Curie was with Mac's team. Losing a wife I didn't love was bad enough.

Deacon says the whole plan would have failed without her.

Hell, Deacon says she wrestled with an overheating sentry bot while Isabel was hacking it.

But Deacon … well, you know Deacon. Why tell a good story when you can tell an awesome story?

The burns are pretty bad, though, so maybe she did.

It's the shrapnel that did the worst damage though.

I'm not sure she'll ever be able to hold a pen again.

And I guess we can adopt.

There's sure plenty of orphans among the people they liberated.

* * *

Thank you for coming to stay with her, Nick.

She insisted Nat go out there with me to get the full story of the exodus. We'll be flying out there as soon as the sun is up.

Twenty-five hundred refugees, nearly two hundred prisoners, seventy-odd robots, plus the expeditionary force: it's gonna be a clusterfuck.

As long as we can keep the captured vertibirds flying, we'll be dropping supplies along the route. Wiseman is already organizing things on his end. So much for everybody having plenty to eat this year.

It's gonna take the better part of a month to get them to Nuka World. Des will have temporary accommodations arranged for them, and we can bring them the rest of the way on the Monorail in batches.

Except the prisoners.

Those motherfuckers get to walk every step from Watervliet to the Castle.

I'll PROBABLY use a boat to get them to Spectacle Island.

Or maybe I'll make them swim.

We'll see.


	14. Back in the Saddle

It's good to see you big guy!

Although the sight of you out of power armor is gonna take some getting used to.

I've gotta confess that I was worried when I heard you were up with Dima. I was afraid you were trading one cult of personality for another.

Yeah, I know. I'm doing my damnedest not to let that happen here. It's not good to let people get used to the idea of one person taking all the initiative. Fortunately, I've got hotheads like Hancock, and subversives like Desdemona to keep me in check.

So how are you feeling about things? That was some serious mind-fuckery you were put though. I'm not sure how I would have handled finding out so much of my life was a lie.

No the code has no expiration date. You can always use it. You're not the only person still carrying theirs. Glory ATE hers, of course, envelope and all, but Sturges keeps his in the bib pocket of his overalls.

I really thought Roger Warwick was gonna use his. That poor bastard KNEW he was an impostor the whole time. Knew he was lying to the real Roger's family every day. Knew that he and they were expendable pawns in an experiment. His wife left him, of course, I think she was already fooling around with Zeke before she found out. Those kids, though. They convinced him that he might not be their real father, but that he was a better father, a better MAN, than the other one had ever been.

Of course, I considered not telling you. Christ, I can only imagine what you felt.

But what the hell kind of friend would I be if I didn't? If I didn't give you the same choice I gave every other synth?

Discovering that you WERE the very thing you had been programmed to hate, though? I have no idea how you managed to survive that.

I'm glad you did, though.

No.

Well, OF COURSE I have a job for you if you want it, but I'm glad you survived and chose to remain the man I know and respect.

Do you still want to be a soldier? I wouldn't blame you at all if you wanted a career change.

Yeah, I know. I never really adjusted to being a civilian, and then I found myself in this world, and was back in the thick of things. Hell, I'm STILL not adjusting that well. Down to carrying one gun and three knives, though, so I guess I'm civilizing a little bit. No grenades, at least, right?

Well. It's kinda nuts, actually.

I'm not sure if there's really a military need, even, and without you to shake down the concept, I wouldn't even consider pursuing it.

Yes. You would have to work with some of them. You will be able to define the terms, though. And I certainly won't expect you to go down there unless you choose to.

But whether or not it's because they made you to be that way or not, you're hands-down the best man with power armor I've ever seen.

Look, you've seen the horses we have now, right?

Yeah, they're everything I hoped they would be, they've been field-proven, and refined, and production is fully up-to-speed.

So we can develop variants now.

Holdren already has a solid draft horse version. I'll take you over and show you the first team this afternoon.

If we can make them that big, we can make them big enough to carry a man in power armor.

And give them armor of their own.

Maybe even build in some weaponry.

What do you think, Paladin? Would you like a warhorse?


	15. Idle Hands

No.

No.

I will never forgive you.

Hell, I didn't really like you that much BEFORE you got my wife crippled.

I don't find you charming, and I really don't find you funny.

But for some reason, I trust you, despite your being one of the most dishonest people I've ever known.

And I definitely respect your skill at infiltration and intelligence-gathering.

And you can think on your feet.

You're a survivor.

And you're smart.

A giant pain in my ass, but a potentially useful one.

Ready for another job?

Good.

Once again, I'm sending you way the hell away from the Commonwealth.

South this time. Capital Wasteland.

Remember Scribe Haylen?

She's been sending me "coded" messages ever since the Brotherhood took their toys and went home.

Arthur lost a lot of face up here, but it hasn't humbled him.

Made him even worse, sounds like.

He's gone from running a glorified protection racket to seizing outright control of most of the settlements. Bleeding them dry to rebuild his power base.

I don't think he's stupid enough to make another run at us, but believe me, he's bound and determined to go fuck things up for somebody as soon as he can. Gotta make himself feel like a big man again.

It probably wasn't the smartest move on my part to let him leave here alive, but most of his people aren't bad, just poorly-led.

Oh some of them are bullying scumbags, for sure. He's made that little shit Rhys a paladin now, for instance.

But there are still a bunch of them who remember what things were like when the Lyons family was running things, and are ashamed of what is being done.

No.

Even if I had any interest in another war, which I absolutely do not, I wouldn't want to do anything that far away. Wasn't Watervliet a clear enough lesson?

But if there is a chance of building up some sort of resistance to Arthur's ambitions, a GOOD chance, mind you, I'd be willing to invest some resources in giving them a better chance to succeed.

I'm not sure yet. It will depend a lot on who and what there is to work with down there.

Which is where you come in.

I want you to join up with the next caravan, or Reilly's Rangers, or whoever you think makes the most sense. Do what you do best. Nose around, find shit out, make contacts.

If you think stirring shit up is a good idea, go ahead and do so, but I'm hoping you can find somebody I can work with. Somebody with some sense who isn't out to become a replacement dictator.

Oh you can shove that right up your ass. If I had wanted that, it was mine for the taking. I didn't. I don't. I won't.

Madison tells me there was somebody down there who had earned a lot of respect. A former vault-dweller. See if you can find them. Size them up. Get me a better sense of what's going on, and what can be done.

Haylen is a good, smart kid with a huge heart, but she is not suited for the kind of clandestine shit that you are. Warn her to lower her profile and stay alive. If you think she's been compromised, then forget the rest, and get her out of there.

Otherwise, take as long as you need to down there, I promise you won't be missed.


	16. Sod or Cod

Congratulations!

Yes, I approve. Of course I do.

I bet your folks are thrilled, too.

You went through some tough times, I'm glad to see you end up with someone as rock-solid as Daniel.

I have a wedding present for you.

A choice of two, actually. Plymouth or Assonet.

There's nobody I'd trust more. You've been part of Northbridge from day one. You have been absolutely critical to its success. You know how we did what we did, and you have always had good ideas on how to do things even better, and the guts to tell me when I'm wrong.

I know you are capable of starting your own place. Even if you hadn't chosen a man like Daniel as your partner.

Hell, I'd already planned to offer you your choice, and him the other one. I'm a little disappointed that I can't have each of you leading your own colony, but with both of you running the same stake, it is guaranteed to thrive.

And you'll have first pick of the rest of your crew. All volunteers, of course, but they'll be fighting to see who gets to join you.

I'd prefer if you chose at least half from among the Incomers. It will be better for everyone if they start identifying with where they are now rather than where they came from. And they're all survivors. Years - some their whole lives - enslaved, then the exodus from Watervliet… tough people.

You two should take a few weeks honeymoon, and ride down to inspect both areas before you choose. Both have advantages, and both will become important sites as we rebuild.

Assanet would probably be the more comfortable choice. It's inland, there's some damn good farmland, and it's relatively free of beasties and ferals. When things get rolling in Fall River and Rhode Island, you'll have the major waystation in the region.

Plymouth, on the other hand, would be a bigger change for you. Whoever ends up running things there is gonna have to learn about the sea. Well, the Bay, at first, but the coast, all the way out the Cape, has got to be tamed. There are a lot more nasties down that way, mirelurks and worse, but whoever ends up holding down there will pass on a tremendous amount of wealth to their children and grandchildren.

Take your time with this. Talk to your man. Spend time in both areas. Pick your crew. Then tell me what you decide. I'll give you the summer to figure it out. Let me know by the harvest festival. I'm already putting together the supplies I anticipate each of the spots to need for a start, but that will give you the fall and winter to really make good arrangements. Next spring you should be all ready to go carve out your own place in the world with the people and gear of your choice.

I can't wait to see what you two make of it.


	17. Posterity

I can't believe how different this place looks.

The lighting alone is transformative, but art!

Eve's mural is breathtaking. I feel like dragging Higgs and Loken back down here just to see it. Surely even those assholes would have to acknowledge the humanity it shows.

No. You're right. They're never gonna understand.

Well, my sources tell me they're good and miserable working for Arthur. I hope they're making him miserable, too. Bastards deserve each other.

Nope. Still no sign. She was in Pittsburgh, for sure, but she didn't stick around. At least three different people claim to have seen her back in Megaton afterward, but then it's like she disappeared off the face of the Earth.

I'm letting Deacon sow the ground with ghost stories about Owyn Lyons, though. Variants on what we started when your people hacked Liberty Prime for me. I know it's a long shot, but anything that could slow Wonder Boy's plans without committing resources is worth trying. I wish I'd thought to put a big white beard on the robot before Watervilet. Hey! Remind me to talk to Eve later, I just had an idea for a propaganda poster.

Your friend Hackett is alive. He and a bunch of refugees from Rivet City ended up in someplace called Canterbury Crossing. Oh. Well, I was close. Anyway, they've carved out a foothold there, and are paying enough tribute to the Brotherhood to remain semi-independent. Just like Megaton, there is a small garrison in place, but they're not quite occupied yet. And they are still pissed.

All this information is about four months out-of-date, though. No telling what's changed since then.

So that's about all I've got about your old stomping grounds. Any chance I can get you back up in the sunlight someday soon and show you what we've accomplished here?

Of course you have, but reading reports isn't the same as seeing it yourself.

Lucy and Daniel are doing even better in Assonet than I had expected. And my expectations were pretty high. Three years in, and she's ready to establish their first two satellite farms this spring, and has chosen sites for a dozen more. His salvage operation is at least twenty percent more efficient than my best Northbridge team, and it looks like they'll be ready to start some light industry by next year.

And Plymouth? My God. I was ready to tear Nick down for parts when I discovered how young Bertha was, but she's a dynamo. Absolutely brilliant. Tough as nails. And she's a born leader. Most of her people are on the younger side as well, but I've seen her stand down a forty-year-old ex-Gunner sergeant, and get him "yes ma'amming" more enthusiastically than a fresh-out-of-the-box Mr. Handy.

Between MacCready's Rough Riders and Danse's Dragoons, every known raider den and feral nest in the greater Boston area has been cleared out, and the worst of the beasties have either been killed, contained, or driven into the Glowing Sea to keep Strong and the surviving mutants entertained and out of our way.

The Incomers, overall, are doing well. They're blending in, mostly happy to be given jobs that don't involve regular beatings and starvation. No real leaders have emerged from their ranks yet, but as brutally as they had been treated, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. But they are enthusiastic, hard-working, and loyal. I'll confess that for the first year or so, I'd see Piper's scars, and resent the crap out of them, but she doesn't at all, and they absolutely idolize her, so yeah, they were worth the price we paid to free them.

I don't think I'll ever stop hating the Gunners, though.

No. I really don't think so. The ones still on Spectacle are irredeemable hardcases. As long as I'm in charge they can stay out there and rot. By the end of the Long Walk, it was pretty clear which of them were reformable and which weren't. I've had to send two of the parolees back, and a dozen or so more of them have died already, most likely at the hands of some of their former captives.

No. Finding their killers hasn't been a real priority.

What? You're just realizing now that I'm a hypocrite? And I thought you were smart!

Ow. OK. I deserved that.

But what I really want you to see is the new families.

The numbers aren't even half of the story.

Synths and mixed synth-human couples would have taken in ten times the number of orphans if they'd been available.

With very few exceptions, synths love children.

And they're good parents.

Is it fair that they can't have their own?

Is it possible to change that? Some sort of upgrade package?

Has the culture down here evolved enough for that possibility to be explored?

You're right. Piper and I have talked about it.

A lot.

We know what it is like to want to have children and not be able to.

It's too late for us, but does it have to be for the synths?

**[NOTE: I dropped three chapters on the same day last week, and it looks like several of you may have only seen the third one. Look back at "Back in the Saddle" and "Idle Hands" if you missed them.]**


	18. Reliable

Reliable.

It's kind of a dull word.

And it can be seen as a dull thing to be.

Reliable.

Brilliant. Inspiring. Innovative. Daring. Much more exciting terms, right?

But without reliable people, it doesn't matter how brilliant, how inspiring, how daring, how innovative you may be.

Reliable people allow brilliance, inspiration, daring and innovation to be more than just empty words.

Reliable people get the work done.

Ten reliable people can accomplish more than an entire roomful of brilliant, inspirational, daring innovators.

In my world, there is no higher compliment I can pay to someone than to call them reliable.

Competence is important, of course, but competence can be developed.

Reliability is more of a core quality. It's not something you can learn, it's something you are.

Preston Garvey was reliable.

He was a lot of other things, of course.

Idealistic. Optimistic. Enthusiastic. Sympathetic.

Honest. Earnest. Stalwart. Resilient.

Ferocious. Kind. Generous. Wise.

But at his core, he was reliable.

He wasn't brilliant.

He wasn't inspiring.

He wasn't daring.

He wasn't innovative.

But he was a good soldier. A good man. A good friend.

And damn, was he reliable.

For over ten years I relied on him.

While I raced around the Commonwealth fighting fires… or lighting them… I relied on him to hold the fort.

I relied on him to teach others what I had taught him.

I relied on him to build a self-sufficient citizenry, capable of knowing when to call for help, when to rush to help others, and when to help their own damn selves.

I relied on him to take care of the little problems so I could attempt to solve the big ones.

I relied on him to do what was needed or die trying.

Last week he died trying.

But I'm gonna keep relying on him.

Because every one of you are here because of the work he did.

Every one of you has the standard he set to live up to.

Can I rely on you?


	19. Restoration

Amazing, isn't it?

Zachary has really outdone himself. To think the Institute had him sweeping floors.

Despite the changes to the central area, the structure is sounder than it was before the war.

Yep. Every pane is new, no salvage at all. Nordhagen is already planning an expansion of their operation. When people see this, everybody is gonna be demanding new glass. Everybody will have to get in line, of course, I've already got plans for the next year or so's production.

That's machine oil. Once we start painting, that smell should get covered up. We were using the space for warehousing and repairs of recovered machinery until last year. Most of that work has been centralized at the airport now. Arthur left us a nice facility when he ran back south. Wasteful not to use it.

Right. Everything but the squeal.

The echo should go away once the acoustic tiles are installed. Bobby DeLuca came up with the design. Woven razorgrain stalks, shrinkwrapped to slow decay.

You shouldn't. He'd have been long dead by now instead if he'd stayed there. And that would've been a real waste. Hell, besides what it did for him, the detox techniques we developed have helped clean up over a hundred other addicts since then. Half of Zachary's crew are ex-raiders, all graduates of the program.

Yeah, the shit is too easy to manufacture, but the inhalers aren't. We've gotten the better part of a ton of those out of circulation, and I plan to keep paying the bounty on them for the foreseeable future.

No. That system was a dead-end. Typical demented Vault-Tec system: so what if it kills over half of the test subjects? There are plenty more where they came from.

By the way, tell Calvin again how grateful I am for the work his team did at 95. A lot of the Incomers wouldn't have made it through that first winter without such good, safe quarters. It's too close to the Glowing Sea for permanent habitation anytime soon, but it was a godsend when we needed it. 88 is still waiting for him once he's through restoring all your new real estate. Or if he thinks Austin is ready to lead his own team, he could tackle it. There's enough space down there to keep him busy for the rest of our lives at least. Codsworth has everything inventoried and organized, and all it needs are hands and brains to start setting things up.

No. None of it was worth salvaging. Bad history, badly presented, with a heavy coat of propaganda shellacked over every bit of it. Even the murals were ugly. When I retire - YES, goddammit, I WILL retire at some point! - I'll work on compiling a text that presents an unvarnished history of the US. Sure there was a lot to admire, but unbridled greed was always the driving force in this… that country, did you know that the original John Hancock was a tea smuggler? The Tea Party was all about countering Britain's attempt to crash the price of tea, and put him and his cronies out of business. The 'patriotism' was just an excuse. Paul Revere? Gifted artisan, complete shit at everything else he tried, especially leading troops. Washington? So-so general, but a damn fine leader. Also a land speculator and, like the majority of his contemporaries, a slave-owner. Lincoln? Pretty damned admirable for the most part, even if he was a lawyer. Jesus, don't get me started. You know I can talk about this stuff for days on end.

Speaking of lecturing, since the Legislature will only need the space a few weeks out of the year, we'll be hosting classes here as well. And concerts. Maybe even some plays. Don't let that insane blowhard put you off, Shakespeare was incredible when performed well. At my suggestion, Zachary incorporated some aspects of the Globe Theatre into the design. See the balcony? There's a trap door, too. No. Not for removing bad actors, for quick exits and appearances. You'll understand once you see it. Great stuff. And so many of the stories still resonate today, maybe even more than they did in the old world.

And this is just a temporary home for the Legislature, of course. I imagine our eventual successors will want to move back into Boston proper one day. All power to them, but as long as I'm stuck with this job, it will stay here, just a few minutes ride from home. Remind me to show you when we get up to the roof, you can see my house from here.

This room will be for the Executive Council. It's where Garvey, Sturges, Murphy and the Longs were holed up the day I met them. This balcony is where I first saw Preston, cranking away at that ridiculous laser musket and shooting it out with raider scumbags. I'm sorry you weren't able to make it for the funeral, I spoke from the same spot where he was standing.

Of course the view is a lot different now. Look at all that activity. You know nearly all of the population of Northbridge is actually south of the bridge now, close to half here in Concord. We lucked out with what good shape the town was in. As soon as it was safe to do so, we started occupying and renovating down here. I sure wasn't gonna let all these good buildings go to waste.

It's funny, as hard as we worked those first few years to make our little triangle of death too tough a nut for any of the local monsters to crack, we outgrew it really fast. Less than three years, and all these brick walls started looking a lot more attractive than our ramshackle encampment. It's mostly just the farms and light industry up there now. This is the real heart of Northbridge.

I suppose that once Garvey Hall is in use, and the Legislature starts meeting here, it will become the heart of the Commonwealth.

Appropriate, I think. After all, Concord means agreement.


	20. Retribution

How did you get hold of the list?

Because if it was from one of my people, I need to find out what other information they may have leaked.

No. I won't ask you who. If you say it's somebody who works for me, I'll find out who.

Yes, I'll believe you.

All right then. Thank you. I'll let Madison know that somebody on her end let it out.

I've gotta admit that I was stunned when I learned it was you. You never struck me as that much of a hands-on guy.

No. That was a compliment. I'm usually much better at reading people.

But you play an oddly subtle game. Christ, you were such an outspoken advocate for the Railroad, nobody suspected you of being one of their most effective legmen. Talk about hiding in plain sight. I was sure surprised to find you pointing a pistol at me in those catacombs.

Granted, at the moment, I was far more concerned by Glory and her minigun, but now I realize you were by far the most dangerous person I was facing that night.

When Marowski and A.J. went down, I thought nothing of it. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

I was sorry to hear about Lonegan, though. He was a sleazeball, but mostly harmless, and everyone knows how I feel about pre-war ghouls.

Cricket was no surprise. She was a half-step from death the whole time I knew her.

I certainly wasn't sad about Weathers. Hell, I'll buy you a drink and curse his memory.

Henry Cooke wasn't one of yours, was he? I don't see you framing that poor bastard Pembroke. Good.

It wasn't until Lucas was killed that I realized what was happening. He wasn't the kind of guy who made enemies. Straightforward. Tough. No bullshit.

Yeah. When he died, the whole list flashed through my mind, and I realized what was happening.

Nope. Not gonna tell you. You've got your secrets, and I've got mine.

You don't get Carla, though. She's off-limits.

She and I had a long, long word of prayer years ago about her side-job.

That's why she got off the road and set up shop in Concord. So I could keep an eye one her. Make sure that I could still trust her.

She's an old lady. She's paid her penance. And I believed her when she told me she didn't know who was actually buying the information.

Neither did the others, for that matter.

In trade for letting Carla live, I'll give you a name that wasn't on the list.

The name of the person who bought the information from all of your victims.

The name of the person who actually knew who they were working for.

All right? Good.

Stash.

Yep.

Did you really think it was her junkie bodyguard who killed her?

You should have talked to me when you got the list, Tony. I could have saved you a lot of trouble.


End file.
